Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Make the Clock Reverse

He hadn’t realized he had heart enough left to shatter. Not until he was faced with the fragile shards fragmented at his feet. It was all too much. Deceit and betrayal, guile and trickery, the puppet master played, the director center stage illuminated under the cold, uncaring light of Truth, and now - this? To see this face look upon him, uncomprehending, unknowing? The pity in that sightless gaze stuck in his throat like tar.

It's too much.

He stumbled backwards, claws digging into his dough, truthful lies and deceitful truths dripping from his lips. A warning, a promise, and the unforgiving, relentless Knowledge that he no longer Knew where Lies ended and Truth began. A portal, a last-ditch effort to hold together the illusion of his fracturing façade, and then, at last, he was finally alone.

He hated it.

It was safer.

***

The scent of wet earth, the faint chill in his dough from a gentle misting. Pure Vanilla’s eyes snapped open uselessly as he shot upwards, a little panicked. The Faerie Kingdom? No – he could feel the wind much too clearly for that forested realm. Fingers digging into the damp, crumbling soil beneath him, he willed his heart to calm. The Spire? No – the illusions there had always settled uncomfortably at the edges of his subconscious. No matter how much an illusion deceived his senses the wrongness prickled at the edge of his mind like a burr. Truthless Recluse had simply ignored the discomfort, as if it would go away when unacknowledged. And before he’d simply not understood enough to see the mask for what it was. Now, though? He knew the difference.

He had felt like that, too.

Pure Vanilla shuddered, mind flitting from the thought instinctively. He had meant what he’d said – that offering of friendship – even if it’d been in the heat of the moment. How could he not, when Shadow Milk Cookie felt like a raw, festering wound? But just because he’d finally found his Truth – that didn’t necessarily mean Pure Vanilla was ready to face it. Not when he’d been fractured apart and slotted back together so hastily he could still feel the disparate parts sliding against each other unevenly.

With a shake of his head, Pure Vanilla pushed himself upright, swaying unsteadily. Arms swinging out wide, he spun, focusing on the empty space around him. He couldn’t sense his staff, and questing fingers didn’t brush smooth wood by his feet. With his eyes open, all he could see was a vast swath of brown, or maybe grey. With a frown, he allowed his magic to unfurl, as it had in that brief moment in the Spire, when he had pushed beyond himself, when his Truth had finally revealed itself to him, when he had just barely glimpsed Knowing.

There was a brief moment of eyes opening, existing beyond himself, the impression of a vast, overgrown field seen in too many directions at once, and then Pure Vanilla hunched over with a groan, hands clasping reflexively at his temples as a bolt of agony lanced through his head.

Pushing aside the throbbing, he rose from his crouch, taking a few, stumbling steps. More concerning than his headache, this strange new locale, was the fact that he hadn’t glimpsed nor sensed the children, anywhere.

***

Searching for the children proved useless. Of course it did. He was practically blind. But if he could not find the children, perhaps another cookie might. Picking a direction, Pure Vanilla walked. If he could not do what he must, he would do what he could.

With a wry sort of amusement Pure Vanilla picked himself up from his fourth tumble into the soil. The fallow field was loamy, and the path treacherous with the remains of tillage. …he had grown too accustomed to the privilege of sight.

Humming a soft tune and veering slowly towards the shadows and cooler air towards his left, he broke through a tree line with some relief. At least now, he could fashion himself a staff. Tapping along through the underbrush with cautious footing, Pure Vanilla hastened his pace when he realized he’d stumbled across the faint remains of a dirt lined path. Cookies!

The shadows grow thicker, the air cooler, and his makeshift staff tapped against something hard and unyielding that swiftly revealed itself to be the foot of a staircase. Nearly tripping up the stairs in his haste, Pure Vanilla rapped eagerly on a sturdy door, before trying to tidy his robes in an attempt at making himself presentable. Hands fidgeting with dirtied cloth and trying to straighten his tangled hair, he waited. The silence stretching out like a living thing.

He knocked again.

“Hello? Is anyone there? Forgive my intrusion, I mean no harm-“

The door swung open with a ponderous creak, and Pure Vanilla’s knuckles tightened around his staff. He couldn’t feel warmth nor light.

Silence.

“Ah, forgive me, I really do mean no harm, I’m just…rather lost… and looking for my – ahem - some children – three young cookies, one with the scent of ginger, another like strawberries and a the third with the crackle of popping candies-“

The silence persisted longer. Long enough for Pure Vanilla to worry that maybe there was no one there at all and he’d somehow imagined the way the air became even cooler, the sensation of standing before another cookie, being watched. But then, another voice rasped out, hoarse from disuse, “Pardon?”

Pure Vanilla took an instinctive step back, alarm and a frisson of fear shuddering through his dough. There was a moment of weightlessness – stairs! – before a pair of clawed hands curved firmly around his shoulders, steadying him. “Careful, you’ll fall,” came that same, ragged voice.

“Shadow Milk Cookie?!” Pure Vanilla finally expounded; voice pitched high in incredulity.

Silence, somehow tinged with something festering, forlorn.

“…Is that what they’re calling me, now?”

“What is going on?” Pure Vanilla sagged, exhaustion tugging at his dough.

“…you came here seeking answers,” That horribly, horribly familiar voice answered, tainted with a strange, unfamiliar fatigue.

“I rather think that’s going to be impossible.”

“Hmm.” A soft huff of air, then a clawed hand wrapping gently around his wrist. Pure Vanilla tensed subconsciously at the touch, the memory of claws too tight around Truthless Recluse's limbs. There was a moment of stillness, before the feel of displaced air from rapid movement. The empty air around his wrist felt even colder than the hand that had once held it. “…come in. You look dreadful.”

The sound of robes susurrating across a firm, stony floor, the creak of a door being held open wider. Wondering if he perhaps was the terminally silly cookie Shadow Milk had named him to be, Pure Vanilla stepped across the threshold before the door swung shut behind him, a somber knell.

 “And…I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else. …my name is Blueberry Milk Cookie.”

Chapter Text

Is it Still a Home?

It was the Spire. It had to be the Spire. There was no other explanation. The air was colder than he remembered. Drafty. The corridors not as winding. More purposeful, filled less with false starts and sudden ends. But the sensation of being observed was the same. Shadow Milk had joked about it – a throwaway line about being in the ‘belly of the beast’ – he hadn’t been in the right frame of mind back then to wonder just how literally he should have taken that. Now, following the faint sounds of robes of all things, he could feel eyes on him, all around him. It was unnerving. He didn’t remember being this disturbed by it as Truthless Recluse.

It was the feel of those same eyes leaving his form, transitioning from the focal point of attention to the willful blind spot that had Pure Vanilla’s attention snapping towards the cookie ahead of him. Shadow Milk would have never given up pressing on such a glaring weakness so easily.

His eyes stared uselessly ahead – nothing – just shadow, and more shadow, and a blob of black, or maybe that was just the hallucination of near useless eyes. Then a sudden, desperate need to understand – to Know – had Pure Vanilla reaching for his magic and the only source of sight available to him, right now. Eyes blinking open in a wave of golden light, and he had a glimpse of long black robes that melted into shadow, a trim of gold and cream falling over slim shoulders like a trailing mantle. He barely glimpsed a swath of familiar, starlight blue hair, streaked with silver, before he was pitching forwards, staff dropping from nerveless fingers as he was suddenly inundated by too much. Not just the sight of the world around him but something infinitely greater, impossibly more vast. A giant, swirling universe of information, a morass of truths and lies subsumed in Knowledge and the wisdom of Knowing being compressed into his tiny, fragile cookie mind-

“Stop! Stop! What are you doing?! Foolish cookie – you must stop – you cannot-!”

A sudden, smothering blanket of magic not his own, a forceful severance, half himself, half the cookie before him, and Pure Vanilla was left gasping, trembling; the ragged edges of his mind a fractured, fragmented thing. Pure Vanilla barely noticed the hand coming up to rest against his back, the awkward patting afforded to him. He certainly didn’t notice the tremor in Shadow Milk’s touch. Instead, he focused on the cool, solid presence of living dough. Shadow Milk smelt of something sharp and crisp, like winter starlight, with a soft undercurrent of tangy blueberry. But below even that, there was something sickly sweet, cloying on the tongue. Like rot.

“Tell me five things you can feel.” Came that soft, detached rasp.

It took a few moments for Pure Vanilla’s swimming mind to parse the words into meaning. But he was familiar enough with this to comply without objection. “Stone – marblecake? – at my knees…Cloth…robes – your robes…strands – hair…your hair…the coldness of your dough…your claws…the eyes of this Spire – your eyes-“

A soft sigh. “I rather feel that most of those things are really just…one thing…” Pure Vanilla’s lips twitched, despite how raw he still felt. He hadn’t thought Shadow Milk capable of such soft, wry humor.

There was a careful disentangling as Pure Vanilla was guided to his feet and herded with barely there touches to settle into a plush chair. The sudden spark of magic, the familiar scent of ozone, and a cup of something warm was pushed into his hands with a hesitant motion and an absence of claws against his fingers. Pure Vanilla let his magic ghost over the offering, finding no poisons and instead only milk and honey. He took a cautious sip, letting the warmth steady his soul and soothe his mind.

“It will ground you,” Shadow Milk started. There was a soft clink of claws on chinaware, and then an offhand comment. “You’d best not do that again, by the way. Lest you become naught but mindless dough.”

Pure Vanilla coughed into his drink. “I…excuse me?”

Shadow Milk continued, his voice flat and mechanical in a way that Pure Vanilla had never heard from the other before. It had Pure Vanilla’s hands clutching uncomfortably around the rim of his cup, holding the warm milk close, a shield against that deadened, droning voice. “To reach for the Other Realm, especially in this place, is to reach for my power. Did you really think you could do so without suffering the consequences?”

The sotto sounds of rustling hair, the click of claw upon wood, and then a soft, barely there sigh. Pure Vanilla’s eyes opened but all he could see was a blurry motion that was probably Shadow Milk rubbing at his face in a shockingly mortal gesture. Then he said, in a way that sounded half mocking, half chiding all at once, “Cookies, always so greedy for things beyond their ken.”  Frowning, Pure Vanilla opened his mouth to object but was cut off with another, more exhausted, more pointed, “What did you wish to Know?”

Ignoring the question, Pure Vanilla pressed his own point and earnestly explained, “I only wished to see you. Those eyes – I haven’t had them long – but I can see out of them, sort of – so I thought…I did not realize I would…do…that…”

“Wished to…see me?” Pure Vanilla hadn’t realized how…distressing…it had been. Shadow Milk’s tone of voice. Not until he’d heard the first crack in it.

With a smiling nod, Pure Vanilla added, “You tried to make me feel more comfortable, did you not? Before, with the eyes of this place.”

There was another long silence, a pregnant pause, on the precipice of a void below.

Another rustling sound, the unsteady clack of chinaware onto a saucer. “…I’ll find your children. …you should leave this place. Before anyone else realizes you’re here.”

“Shad- Blueberry Milk Cookie?”

The other cookie’s response came from further away this time, as if drifting down an overly long hallway. “You are…kind. It will be your undoing, one day. …I would have no part in it.”

Chapter Text

Baptized with a Perfect Name

There was something…very, very wrong with this situation. Pacing back and forth, tail lashing restlessly, Blueberry Milk grabbed the offending appendage, claws digging into the soft fur. It hurt, but it was better than accidentally drawing jam, again. It wasn’t…it wasn’t him. He was a cookie. A cookie! Not some sort of wretched…beast.

Pain pulsed behind his eye, and he had to restrain from clawing at his bandages. The cracks in his dough continued to widen, and neither healing spell nor regenerative incantation nor restorative array – including ones he’d invented on the spot for that express purpose – seemed to stop or even slow the damage. Only illusions felt safe, provided the façade of normality.

A low, irritated growl rumbled in his chest, up his throat, and his claws scrabbled at his neck, as if he could rip out the offending sounds. The illusion slid over him, thick and cloying and viscous, and he shuddered in relief as the cookie reflected back in the scrying bowl’s surface was finally normal, even as the familiar ache of self-loathing curled in his chest.  Was even he preferring the lie, now?

Forcing those thoughts aside with practiced ease, he returned to the task before him. Hand hovering over the scrying bowl, he again tried to locate those…’three lost children.’ The ingredients were easy enough to surmise, and he’d even obtained some ginger and strawberries to assist (popping candy was…harder to guess at, and so he’d foregone that one) but those three were proving…hard to locate. Even when he’d opened his mind, applied the full weight of Knowledge to the task, he’d only gotten the insight of home before he’d pulled away, damaged eye throbbing.

Claws clicking on the bowl, he pondered quietly. It was…intriguing. That cookie hadn’t felt like he was lying, either. But to be interested in another was…dangerous. Especially when he was–

Sinking onto the cool marblecake flooring Blueberry Milk clawed at his scalp, tugging strands of hair roughly. He flinched when he looked thoughtlessly at the tangled mess in his hands only to find his hair looking back at him. Shuddering, he incinerated the offending strands with a snap of flame, fangs digging into his own dough to muffle whatever wounded animal sounds that wanted to escape it.

Alright, that’s enough, Blue! You’re fine. You’re fine! You have this all under control! You have that cookie’s answer – his children are at home – they’re fine – and he’ll accept that, and then he’ll be on his way. And you’ll be alone again.

Head tipping backwards to rest against the cool wall, staring blindly at the ceiling arched high above, he couldn’t suppress the soft, exhausted sigh. I don’t…have to tell him immediately, do I? And who’s to say he’d even believe me. Why does no one believe me?  Is it better if he stays? Should he go? …he should probably go. Because, regardless, it can’t mean anything good. That he has my Soul Jam.

Summoning his staff to his side was as simple as thought. Looking at anything too long without his monocle always worsened the headache that never seemed to dull these days…but sometimes the clarity of proper vision was even more painful. Instead, he traced over the contours of his Soul Jam gently. Like this, he could pretend that the eye in the center wasn’t slowly opening, that the brilliant, starlight blue wasn’t becoming tarnished and dull.

That he wasn’t rotting from the inside out.

“I don’t…think it’s my Soul Jam. He wouldn’t have…collapsed under the weight of Knowledge, then. Lesser, but… not incomplete? A fragment? But how…” Another secret I dare not touch?

Curling up even tighter, Blueberry Milk buried his face against his knees, not even registering the way the lie fractured and his tail coiled around his legs.

I don’t understand. I don’t understand! What does this all mean? I’m scared of what this could mean.

***

It was the scent of vanilla that woke him.

For one wonderful, ephemeral moment, Pure Vanilla thought himself home. Heard the ghosts of cookies moving about beyond the doorway, the sounds of blueberry birds at his window. Felt the warmth and light of the Vanilla Kingdom. Of home. But then his eyes opened to darkness, and not the enchanted gaze of his vanilla orchid staff. There was only silence. The room, cold.

And yet, the scent of vanilla remained.

Dragging himself out of bed, Pure Vanilla made his way towards the kitchens. Still where he remembered them, although somehow easier to access.

Shadow Milk didn’t greet him, but there was a scrape of wood on marblecake and Pure Vanilla sat in the proffered chair. He might have offered to help, but the reality of Shadow Milk Cookie cooking breakfast for him was too surreal to process.

Glassware pressed into the back of his hand, followed by the near silent scrape of a soft sole against stone flooring then the clatter of a plate before him. His hand shifted for a utensil, before a fork encased in blue magic nudged his fingertips of its own accord.

It was kind. Had Shadow Milk ever been this kind to him? (He had. In his own way, the Beast of Deceit had kept to his own rules. Had kept him prisoner, but never imprisoned him. Even the lies had come less frequently, when the truth often hurt more.)

Vanilla burst on his tongue. The faint hint of sugar, the tang of strawberry, the richness of ginger and nutmeg. The afterimage of lemon. Pure Vanilla thought of Gingerbrave, of Strawberry and of Wizard and tasted home. (A smile. Tiny and faint and real curled across Pure Vanilla’s lips.)

“…you…you like it?” Shadow Milk’s voice was soft in a way that Pure Vanilla had heard only once before. (‘…Friend?’)

“It’s wonderful,” Pure Vanilla confessed honestly. “You are a surprisingly good cook.”

“It’s just reading a recipe,” Shadow Milk demurred, but there was something in his voice that had Pure Vanilla smiling. He could almost imagine the way the other cookie’s chest might puff out in pride. The Beast had seemed to lap up accolades, to the point where he’d even sing his own praises.

There was the discordant scrape of another chair being pulled out, and Pure Vanilla tilted his head when he realized he didn’t hear another set of cutlery. “You’re not eating?”

Shadow Milk’s voice dragged with weight unspoken, as he said, slowly, “I’m …not hungry.”

With a soft hum, and a moment of inward bemusement at the fact that he was attempting to convince someone else to eat, Pure Vanilla savored another bite of pancake, before replying. “It’s lonely, eating alone.”

A sharp intake of breath, then a strangely wet chuckle. “Bold little thing, aren’t you?”

Pure Vanilla didn't deign to respond to that, and was soon rewarded with the clatter of another set of cutlery across from him. “It’s good, isn’t it?” He said with a wry smile.

“Y-yeah.”

“How did you know,” Pure Vanilla asked, as he finished scraping his plate clean of the last dregs of syrup.

“Hmm?”

“Vanilla, I mean.”

There was a sudden clang of metal falling onto porcelain, accompanied by a soft choke and a series of coughs.

“I- uh- I could just…tell?” A soft, exhausted sigh, and Shadow Milk muttered, “I just Knew.”

Pure Vanilla tilted his head, curious. Knew?

The other cookie’s voice carried a strained smile as he added hurriedly, “I only mean, it wasn’t that difficult to infer. The scent of vanilla clings to you – you fell on me, if you recall – and I’ve met other cookies who’s primary or secondary ingredient is vanilla-“

Waving his hands, Pure Vanilla cut across Shadow Milk with a pointed, “Blueberry Milk Cookie! It’s okay! I believe you.”

The silence was deafening.

“You…you do?”

Brow furrowing with a troubled smile, Pure Vanilla responded in confusion. “Of course I do. I understand better than most, identifying cookies by smell, or sound, or touch.”

“Oh. O-of course.”

“Blueberry Mi-“

“So!” Shadow Milk interjected with a sharp clap. “Those little cookies of yours! I found them for you – of course I did – I can do anything –“

Pure Vanilla rose hastily at the others words. Shadow Milk’s voice had ticked upwards in pitch – not quite manic, but, “They’re ‘home’ apparently! Wherever that might be? So, there’s your answer. And you should really be going, now, or they’ll be worried, I’m sure-“

Somehow, his instinct never led him astray, when it came to this particular cookie. Pure Vanilla was up and around the table, heedless of the clatter of wood on stone, and his hands fumbled for Shadow Milk’s own, catching ill-fitting gloves, before squeezing gently, eyes opening. This close, he could make out blurry splotches of color and shadow, the cream of bandages wrapped around half of Shadow Milk’s face. Something thick lodged in his throat and concern roiled in his gut. Had he ever seen Shadow Milk this…undone? Unraveling at the seams? (…Yes. But only once. When the greatest worst lie had shattered what little of Shadow Milk’s composure remained).

“Blueberry Milk Cookie, please, it’s okay! What’s wrong? Help me understand?”

Hands moving to chafe at Shadow Milk’s own in a calming gesture, Pure Vanilla let out an irritated huff, thoughtlessly peeling off the ill-fitting gloves – Why is he wearing these?! – before leading the other cookie to a tiny hidden sitting room he remembered from before. The sofa was easy to find – exactly where he remembered it. The low table, the soft crackle of fire, it was all familiar. It had been the perfect hideaway, back when Truthless Recluse was drowning in his despair. The only difference was he wasn’t the one in need of sanctuary, now.

It was easier, somehow, to think less about the caricature of that Beast that had tormented him, when he could feel each minute tremor coursing through the cookie in front of him. …Shadow Milk hadn’t seemed quite so small. Pure Vanilla’s fingers traced purposefully over the curve of each digit, learning the sharp edges of each claw, the strange textural differences between the near and distal portions of Blueberry Milk’s hand. Had Shadow Milk’s claws been like this?  Each claw felt hard and strangely brittle, like the charred remains of something that strayed too close to open flame.

“How…how can you touch me like this?” There was a strange, fragile rasp to Blueberry Milk’s voice. “…is it not monstrous?”

“…we are monstrous in the choices we make, not the image thrust upon us.” Pure Vanilla responded quietly.

A soft, wheezing laugh. “Truth. …or what you perceive to be truth, at any rate.” The claw wrapped gingerly around his own hand.

“What troubles you?” Pure Vanilla asked gently.

A pause. Then, “You believe me? That your children are ‘home?’”

“I…I do.”

“But…why? It- it makes no sense – I Know it to be true, and yet even I don’t understand the how of it myself.” Blueberry Milk’s hands were shaking.

A trembling smile curved across Pure Vanilla’s lips, as he said, “I just do. I can tell.” His hand did not move towards his Soul Jam…but he could feel both their attention on it, all the same.

“I…see.” Blueberry Milk’s voice was thick meaning. “Then, will you not…return to them?”

“I would like to,” Pure Vanilla started, before looking down at his own hands and the hand still in his. He took a deep, fortifying breath. “I would like to. But I’m afraid I don’t quite know how.”

Blueberry Milk’s grip tightened minutely around his own. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“…it means I don’t know how I got here …and I fear I’m not supposed to be here.”

Chapter Text

Nice is Different than Good

“You are…displaced.”

“Yes.”

“In time?”

“I…believe so?”

“If this is some sort of farce, made to mock me, it is in very poor taste-“

“Why would…anyone…do that?”

“You-!” Blueberry Milk buried his head in his hands. The soft, slightly commiserating pat along his back had him leaning into it before he remembered himself, pulling away with a swallowed sound he didn’t want to even contemplate.

He stared at the other cookie – Pure Vanilla Cookie! His name! – some tiny part of him crowed, with the full force of all his eyes. His Knowing.

Pure Vanilla Cookie just smiled at him with a wry, wretched little grin, like there was humor to be had in this situation.

Blueberry Milk felt his own lips twitching and had to smother the smile with a snapped, “And I suppose you just go about breaking magic, physics, and the natural order of the universe every other Tuesday?!”

…Pure Vanilla had no right to look as unconcerned as he did.

Studiously not looking at Pure Vanilla, Blueberry Milk crossed his arms over his chest, one claw tapping his chin in thought. If this were true – and that was a very great ‘if’ – then he had…a true mystery on his hands. Something to really sink his teeth into – an area of uncharted research to explore – his eyes darted quickly towards that gently smiling face – and maybe, the only cookie in all of Earthbread who doesn’t know who I am.

Pure Vanilla was looking at him, with an expression Blueberry Milk did not quite know how to read. “What?” He asked, a note of suspicion creeping into his tone.

The other didn’t respond immediately. Instead, his eyes drifted closed and his attention focused onto the stick he was using as a makeshift staff, tracing over the whorls in the bark mindlessly before he asked, “You believe me?”

Blueberry Milk’s breath caught in his throat, and something clenched painfully in his chest. It was…a horribly familiar question. And while the Truth was often uncaring of the cookies involved-

“I-“ He took a trembling breath. “I am willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

“I see,” Pure Vanilla whispered, and Blueberry Milk’s breath caught when the other cookie leaned into his shoulder with a relieved exhale. He watched, feeling as if he were not quite inhabiting his own dough, as one tanned hand came to clasp around his own. It was…nice.

“What are we going to do about it?” Pure Vanilla asked, an eternity later.

“I don’t know,” and Blueberry Milk’s breath stopped as the unpalatable truth slipped so gracelessly past his lips.

“That’s okay. We’ll figure something out.”

It felt like something was easing off his shoulders. Had he always been this weighed down? “You make no sense.” He tilted his head, eyes closing. A whiff of Vanilla.

“Why? No cookie can have all the answers.”

A wet, despairing laugh, as he shifted more, trying to drown himself in Vanilla and warmth. His tail swayed gently beneath his robes, and he couldn’t even bring himself to step on it to stop the gesture. “I have never met a cookie like you.”

He could sense sightless eyes on him, and then a hand came up to brush lightly against the bandages on his face. He growled softly in warning, before the sound actually registered. Dough flaming, he recoiled, shoulders hunching, claws digging viciously into his sides and tail coiling around his leg like a vice as shame burned him alive. He could feel his eyes widening, mouth opening and closing uselessly, as he tried to find something, anything, to say, to explain-

Pure Vanilla saved him, hands going upwards in a pacifying gesture. “I only meant to say, if you’re injured, I can help? I’m a healer.”

Something in him recoiled at the gesture. He wasn’t some sort of…wild animal, needing platitudes. Shaking his head firmly, he said, “You can’t. I’ve tried.”

Pure Vanilla’s expression turned a little mulish. “You’ve tried? You’re a healer, too?”

“Of course not, I-“ Blueberry Milk’s jaw clacked shut audibly. Right. How…was he going to explain this…without explaining the whole Virtue of Knowledge, thing? “You…really don’t know anything, do you?” He said instead, feeling strangely shocked. No one had ever…not expected him to Know every little which thing, before. They’d just…never liked his answers.

Pure Vanilla was smiling at him, a cheeky little thing with an upraised brow. “You really expect to know every healing spell, array, and incantation even unto the future?”

Blueberry Milk sputtered helplessly, another flush curling across his cheeks. I probably made them! Doubt and disbelief were not unfamiliar to him, so why was this so refreshing?! Decidedly not pouting, he said, “I…should be familiar with some of them, at least. I suspect. …I’m a scholar.” That should be safe enough, right?

“So you won’t let me help you?” What- why would -where did he get-  is he teasing me?!

“I- I never said that! I only meant-“ He fell silent, words suddenly feeling useless. How to explain? It was all too personal. I don’t want you to see the hideous monster I am? The rot? I don’t want you to run from me.

“Forgive me, Blueberry Milk.” Pure Vanilla spoke softly, and then hands were reaching for his own. Sighing, he felt the tension ease from his shoulders as Pure Vanilla let the topic go. Instead, he focused for a moment on the feel of large, warm hands holding his own. Carefully, experimentally, he let his thumb trace over one joint, and marveled at the way Pure Vanilla didn’t seem to shudder at the drag of a claw over his digit, or what surely must be the uncomfortably rough nature of his corrupted dough.

A little hoarsely, casting about for a different and yet adjacent topic, he murmured, “I thought you didn’t like the touch of my claws?” It would be…hard to forget he would never forget the way Pure Vanilla had tensed with discomfort the first time he’d touched the other.

Pure Vanilla’s hands flexed a little, around his own. Blueberry Milk pretended not to see, and instead focused on branding the sensation of hands around his own into his mind. The shape, the pressure, the little blemishes and ragged edges of hands well used to honest work. The warmth.

“It wasn’t…about…you.” (Blueberry Milk’s brow twitched minutely. Lie. No – Truth? Both??) “At least…not entirely.” Better.

Pure Vanilla’s voice was slow and halting, as if he was tasting each word before uttering them. “Back before I was…here…I…met a…very…angry…cookie. He was…hurting…and so…he didn’t particularly care…who he…hurt. He had…claws…like yours.” Pure Vanilla gave a weak, watery smile, before carefully dragging his thumb over the ragged, corrupted edges of the claws tracing over his dough. “Not…exactly like yours, though.”

Blueberry Milk felt…lightheaded. Is…is he saying he…doesn’t mind the ugly charring? Shifting slowly, moving to capture Pure Vanilla’s hands in his own, marveling at the way the other cookie didn’t seem to recoil or pull away at all, not even at the way he purposefully dragged his fingers over soft, warm hands, he murmured, “First…I’d like to say that sounds terrible, and I’m sorry that he hurt you. …I’m sure you didn’t deserve his ire.” How could you? When you’re so…kind.

Pure Vanilla’s laugh sounded almost…choked. Blueberry Milk let out a startled little noise as the other leaned forward, head resting against his shoulder. “I wish it had been you,” he whispered.

Confused Blueberry Milk patted softly at the other’s back, hand threading through long golden strands gently. He…didn’t know how to take that. Truth. No - ….lie? What does that mean? Wish…that I had been the one to hurt him? Or, no, he’d met me instead?  

“Was that why…you called me ‘Shadow Milk Cookie.’”

Pure Vanilla nodded against his neck, before taking a deep breath, and admitting like a guilty secret, “I thought you were he, for a moment.”

Blueberry Milk’s arms tightened around the other, as a strange, foreboding chill shuddered down his spine. His tail coiled anxiously between his legs. But then Pure Vanilla’s arms tightened around him in turn, and he pulled back just enough to look Blueberry Milk in the eye, own milky eyes opened in his earnestness. Pure Vanilla raised a hand, tucking a lock of silver hair behind one pointed ear, and he couldn’t stop himself from leaning into the touch.

“But you…you and he are not the same,” Pure Vanilla continued softly. His brow furrowed as sorrow flickered across his face. “Reflections, perhaps? …you are whole…in a way he is…not. Not anymore.” Blueberry Milk swallowed thickly. Truth. And…lie.

“What did he…do?” he asked the other cookie gently, voice hushed.

Something in Pure Vanilla’s gaze looked quietly shattered, and Blueberry Milk clumsily grasped the other’s hand, trying for comforting in the way Pure Vanilla had done for him, before.

“He…tried to break me…in order to rebuild me in his own image.” Something sick and hot and angry roiled in Blueberry Milk’s gut at the confession, but it was the broken smile on Pure Vanilla’s face that had him tugging the other forward again, wanting to secret it away, never to be seen again. He could feel the other’s words ghosting against his neck as Pure Vanilla continued, “And…I hate myself, a little. Because some part of me has already…forgiven him.”

“I told you,” he whispered, as despair suddenly coiled in his chest, burned like a brand across his accursed eye, “Your kindness will be your undoing.”

Pure Vanilla laughed brokenly. “He said the same thing, you know.”

Something in Blueberry Milk’s chest rumbled softly, a subconscious attempt at comfort. He never wanted to hear that horrible sound out of Pure Vanilla’s mouth again. “I think…it could be the death of you. But…I can’t bring myself to hate it.” Not when you give it to me, so freely. …it might be the only thing to save me. “Please don’t change.” Truth.  

Chapter Text

For Hope I’d Give My Everything

With a deep, shuddering breath Blueberry Milk finally disentangled himself – just slightly – from Pure Vanilla. Something in him glowed at the little, discontented noise the other cookie made. But, as if somehow sensing the roiling anxiety in his gut, Pure Vanilla didn’t protest, and instead just reached for his hands, rubbing at them soothingly. He could almost sense the relief in the other, at that confession, and it gave him a strange sort of energy. Enough to dare to –

“You…you wanted to…see my face…didn’t you?” He mumbled, eyes drifting to the side.

Pure Vanilla’s eyes widened and he peered upwards in concern, eyes shifting like he was trying to catch sight of something but failing. Blueberry Milk couldn’t help his slight smile, the exasperated expression on Pure Vanilla’s face was almost…cute? We’ll have to fix that, first, then. He’s clearly used to some means of seeing despite his blindness. Near blindness?

A tug on his hand brought him back to reality with a soft, “Are you sure? You don’t have to. …I saw how distressing the thought was for you.” And, slightly more sternly, “I didn’t tell you that story of Shadow Milk Cookie just to…make you feel obligated to open yourself up to me, in turn.”

With a reassuring squeeze of the hand in his own, Blueberry Milk nodded once, easily. Trying to suppress how jittery he felt, he added, “I’m sure.” You make me want to hope, again.

Reaching up to methodically unwind the bandages from around his face, he barely noticed the way dried jam stuck uncomfortably to his face, the way each bandage chafed. His only concession to his anxiety was how he didn’t quite meet Pure Vanilla’s eyes, focused instead on folding the dirtied strips. Jam – there was more jam than he’d expected – Ah, that’s why my eye feels crusted shut.

So, of course, he missed the way Pure Vanilla had moved, until there was a feather-light touch at the edges of one of the cracks in his dough. His eyes snapped upwards, the jam-crusted right eye ripping open painfully, and then he was muffling the pained whimper that tried to escape him, fangs clamping into his cheek desperately even as his pupils blew wide and his thoughts scattered. Close! Too close!

Then he finally registered the stricken expression on Pure Vanilla’s face.

What jam that had been rushing to his cheeks drained immediately; a pulse of mind numbing fear shot through his dough, and then he was recoiling, leaning away, stretching towards the other arm of the sofa- No – nononono he was supposed to be safe – not disgusted – please no-

Pure Vanilla’s head slammed painfully into his own as the other cookie’s hands clamped around his limbs like a vice. “NO. Whatever nonsense you are thinking – Stop. Blueberry Milk Cookie!”

There was a moment where he could only look up at the other cookie in utter incomprehension as his mind struggled to parse the words. Pure Vanilla hovered over him like some sort of avenging angel – Witch-sent to render divine judgement – his tail coiled around Pure Vanilla’s leg.

There was a moment of absolute silence.

Pure Vanilla’s head swung downwards to look between them, before his hand reached down to brush in bewilderment along the furry loop of corded muscle.

“Is this…a tail?”

“Leave me alone!” Blueberry Milk nearly yowled, mortification curdling his jam, before he crossed his arms above his face to hide his flaming cheeks from view. “Witches above!”

***

It had been…a true shock, realizing he was tracing out that marking stretched across Blueberry Milk’s face. It was…larger than he remembered. Stretched from brow to chin, not the painted mimicry scrawled across Shadow Milk’s cheek but…a true wound. Furrows carved into dough, leaking jam, crumbling.

He had been…separating them in his mind. Finding a tentative peace in one, and putting aside the other. Then – that mark. And the fragile divide separating the Virtue from the Beast had simply…vanished. Like it had never been.

There was a rapid, sharp swishing sound, and he just knew Blueberry Milk’s…tail…was lashing against the ground in exactly the same way that Shadow Milk’s hair had done, each time the Beast had been overcome with emotion.

“What.” The word came out sharp, biting – exactly as it would have come out of Shadow Milk’s mouth.

Sometimes, it was so hard to draw a line between them – find that point where Blueberry Milk ended, and Shadow Milk began. (…he didn’t even know if he should.)

Ignoring the tone entirely, Pure Vanilla sat back down beside Blueberry Milk, leaning heavily against the other’s side pointedly, and then holding up the damp cloth he’d brought for Blueberry Milk’s damaged eye in silent offering.

A sigh. The steady, violent swishing relaxed, before stopping entirely…only for something long and furry to coil around his leg again. And then, finally, tension eased off slim shoulders when Pure Vanilla didn’t object. At last, a clawed hand gently grasped his wrist to bring the damp cloth to cover the other cookie’s jam-crusted cyan eye.

Blueberry Milk leaned into his touch. “We should have…probably found a way to ensure you could see a bit better, before doing this, I suppose.” He finally said, voice lilting with something soft and wry.

Laughing quietly, Pure Vanilla dabbed a bit at the other cookie’s eye, leaning closer. “Hmm. Probably.” Blueberry Milk’s own eyes had drifted closed, and his head had tilted towards Pure Vanilla. The healer could feel the ragged edges of half crumbled dough, and this close, he could smell jam, and the fainter odor of something more pungent, like curdled milk. Like rot.

“How did this happen?” He asked softly, voice laced with concern.

Blueberry Milk’s voice came after a pause, low and even. “I don’t know.” (Pure Vanilla breathed in, once. His Soul Jam pulsed. Lie.) He felt more than heard the rumbling unhappiness in the cookie before him. “Can we…talk about something else?” Blueberry Milk's words sounded almost plaintive.

Pure Vanilla nodded slowly, and then, hand covered in a swath of golden light, carefully examining the other cookie’s wound, prodding it gently with his magics to see if healing were possible. Something within the wound resisted (Corruption, Truth whispered), but he could, at least, lessen some of the swollen, tender bits; the tension headache bubbling behind Blueberry Milk’s eye.

“Are you familiar with a flower called a Vanilla Orchid?” Pure Vanilla asked, voice a soft whisper, to fit the hushed intensity of the moment.

Blueberry Milk’s cobalt eye flickered open, briefly, gaze unfocused before silvery lashes fluttered closed once again. “Hmm?” He asked, nearly drowsy, as he leaned into the lingering brush of fingertips ghosting over the cracked edges of the wound on his face. A soft, gentle rumble hung, suspended, in the edges of the moment around them.

With a smile veering too close to fondness, Pure Vanilla patted the other cookie’s cheek gently, before brushing a stubbornly curling lock of silver hair from Blueberry Milk’s face. He could see a splash of color on the other’s brow, blue or perhaps grey, and when he brushed over it curiously, found himself tracing out a shape reminiscent of the footprint of one of Black Raisin’s crows. In fact, now that he thought about it, even Blueberry Milk’s wound was in this same shape – just carved into his very dough. Now that I think about it…I know I’ve seen this shape somewhere before.

Pure Vanilla leaned back, straightening, only to be halted by the sudden vice grip of fur tangled around his calf. Blinking, he looked up, tilting his head curiously. The previous rumbling sound was truly only notable now, in its absence.

He could sense Blueberry Milk staring at him with an intensity that bordered on sharp. It felt almost like having the full attention of all the eyes of the Spire on him, once again. “What is it?” He asked, voice still a hushed whisper.

A tiny huff of a sigh, before the other cookie’s tail was unwinding from around his leg and disappearing underneath black robes. A clawed hand soon grasped his own, before Blueberry Milk shook his head with a rustle of cloth and curls. “It’s no matter. …you mentioned…a Vanilla Orchid, correct?”

Nodding, Pure Vanilla let the other cookie haul him upright, before stopping Blueberry Milk from leading him out of the room, instead tugging the other to help clean up the discarded bandages and jam-stained cloths. “You’re familiar?”

“I am,” Blueberry Milk responded, leading them both to the kitchens again, gesturing for Pure Vanilla to toss the remaining waste away. He stopped Pure Vanilla from cleaning up after their meal in the Kitchen with a tug on the other’s hand, leading the healer back out the way they’d come and down hallways cloaked in shadow and streaked by sun. Pure Vanilla blinked. The Spire had been, rather dark, last he recalled.

Blueberry Milk was still talking. “…choice. Native to one of the continents west of here, so rather difficult to come by, but not impossible. Known for their soothing nature, pleasant scents, and sight-enhancing properties, once awoken. I presume you’re planning an All-Seeing ritual? Or perhaps just binding it to a Perception Array?”

Pure Vanilla’s mouth dropped open, and he stared at Blueberry Milk, shocked. “Y-yes? Maybe?”

Whatever the expression on his face, it was enough to have the other turning away, claws tightening around Pure Vanilla’s hand as the scholar sped up to haul the other forwards faster. Pure Vanilla could almost imagine the faint curl of embarrassment echoing in Blueberry Milk’s chest. “Well? What sort of magic did you normally, use? We can start there-“

“Well…I just sort of asked the flower for assist – Wait! You’ll help me?” Pure Vanilla came to a stuttering halt, tugging Blueberry Milk back towards him, eyes straining to make out the shorter cookie, bathed as he was in light and shadow.

“Of course I will!” Blueberry Milk sounded almost…affronted. The cyan of his damaged eye seemed to glow softly. “You have the very F- first scholar of this land at your disposal! You think I’m going to let you make some sort of two-bit seeing implement? …you said you wanted to see me, didn’t you?”

He remembered. Pure Vanilla’s Soul Jam ached.

“Come on, Pure Vanilla! Vanilla. Nilla? Nilly! Yes – C’mon Nilly – You want to see, I’ll help you see! It’s not like it needs to be a staff, either. We could do a monocle, like mine, or proper lenses – or if you have a specific request it should be no problem; I’m sure I have all manner of books on the subject – you’ll find I’m a rather phenomenal resource – but first – we just have to get there – I want you to see – my most prized possession!”

…they really are the same cookie, aren’t they.

Do not let go of that hand.

***

Some art of Blueberry Milk (now that he's not hiding from Pure Vanilla) by EstelleLuna

https://www.deviantart.com/crimsonmired/art/1194109868

Chapter Text

Send in the Clowns

Pure Vanilla stumbled along blindly. Which was, perhaps, not all that unexpected, but was unusual when he considered how surefooted the other cookie usually was. Slowing to a stop nearly halfway to his favorite place in all the Spire, Blueberry Milk peered up into that gentle, kind face, mind combing over his words even as he cursed himself for his useless, uncontrolled prattle.

He knew most cookies didn’t like to be talked at. And Pure Vanilla looked…stricken.

Grasping the other’s hands anxiously in his own, he peered upwards, asking, “Pure Vanilla?”

No response. The healer’s eyes had always had an unfocused bent…but now they seemed…to look through him. Swallowing thickly, Blueberry Milk stepped closer, claws tightening around the hands in his own, tail coiling and uncoiling restlessly between his legs.

“Forgive me – I didn’t mean to distress you – was it something I said? I won’t do it again-“

A hand, brushing gently across the rune on his brow; the furrows in his dough.

“You called me Nilly.” The words sounded thin. Distant.

His hands spasmed around Pure Vanilla’s, at those words. He…hated it that much?

“…Forgive me. I…meant no offense. I- it was too forward, wasn’t it.”

Taking a fumbling step backwards, instinctively trying to give Pure Vanilla space, hide his fragile heart, relief and anxiety warred for dominance when Pure Vanilla didn’t let him. Large, warm hands held him fast, tugged him closer.

With a ragged, fortifying breath, shoving the fear as deeply aside as he could, he stepped closer still, wrapping his arms around the other cookie awkwardly, and ignored the way his tail curled around Pure Vanilla’s leg of its own accord. It was anchoring, in a way. And perhaps…for Pure Vanilla, too, as the other cookie seemed to ease, ever so slightly.

“Tell me what troubles you?”

“I…” Pure Vanilla’s voice was slightly hoarse. “Why Nilly?”

“Because it’s short and cute, rolls easily off the tongue, and sounds friendly, and I want to be your friend.” Blueberry Milk’s response was swift, and perhaps a little too honest. He gasped, lips pressed together uncomfortably, as he tried not to think too hard about his heated cheeks.

Pure Vanilla was looking at him…almost wondrously? “You want to be my…friend?”

“Is…is that okay?” Blueberry Milk nearly squeaked out. “I mean…I don’t have much…experience with-“

Pure Vanilla did not exactly collapse on top of him, but he did suddenly lean heavily on the smaller cookie, arms wrapping around Blueberry Milk and nose buried in midnight blue and silver strands.

He almost spoke again, but the tiny quiver that coursed through Pure Vanilla’s form, followed by a few scant droplets of wetness stayed his tongue. Instead, Blueberry Milk just supported the other cookie as best he could, arms and tail coiled around Pure Vanilla securely.

“I’m sorry,” Pure Vanilla murmured, even as he slowly disentangled himself from around Blueberry Milk’s form. “I worried you. I didn’t mean to.”

Blueberry Milk swallowed thickly, tail flexing tighter around Pure Vanilla’s leg even as he swayed closer, chasing that warmth, before he coughed, stepping back once. His smile was crooked and small and gentle; a flash of fangs. “But…you’re still here, aren’t you? That’s…more than enough.”

Pure Vanilla’s face spasmed again, as if he were in physical pain. But, with a deep, slow exhale, as if he were releasing something pent up and pressurized inside him, he eased.

Blueberry Milk, with an expression somewhere between shyness and softness, snagged Pure Vanilla’s hand once more, before tucking it in the crook of his elbow. A distraction was in order, it seemed. “Shall we?”

A hand, squeezing his arm in silent thanks. “Let's.”

 ***

A library.

Blueberry Milk had brought him to a library!

The last remaining sliver of tension escaped him like smoke.

Pure Vanilla nearly stumbled over himself in his blind eagerness, halfway towards one of the shelves, before he remembered himself. “May I-?”

“Of course. What’s mine is yours.” Blueberry Milk responded swiftly, a smile in his voice.

The library was beautiful. Lit by sunlight through large floor to ceiling windows in a way that he hadn’t expected of the usually dark and drafty Spire. But then, he’d noted light earlier, as well, hadn’t he?

Yet another question about the cookie before him. Perhaps it was fitting, that every sliver of knowledge he learned of Blueberry Milk Cookie Shadow Milk Cookie opened up an entire trove of new avenues of further study.

Somehow, he suspected he’d never tire of learning new things about this cookie.

His eyes darted towards where he could hear the other shuffling about, loadstone seeking its true north. The blob of shadows shot through by silver and gold was digging about by one of the bookcases towards the back of the room…or maybe one of the pair of cabinets (at least, he presumed they were cabinets. It was hard to tell, when wood and shadows and books all melded together and a morass of indistinct shapes in his vision).

Hand reaching up to delicately trace the spine of one of the many tomes before him, Pure Vanilla felt his smile slip off his face in somber thought. He was…beginning to sympathize with Shadow Milk’s reaction towards his previous overture of friendship. Blueberry Milk was so unfailingly considerate – kind in a painfully understated way that it actually…hurt…to be the recipient.

He knew the other had questions – about the shock that had nearly consumed him at being called ‘Nilly’ – was sure that Blueberry Milk had his own fears about this strange back and forth they were engaged in – and yet, he simply…hadn’t asked. Had provided comfort, and then a distraction.

(More terrifying yet, was the part of him that wanted to tell all. Wanted to divulge the truth of Shadow Milk Cooke. Wanted to hold this beautiful cookie close, and beg him to cease with his lies, to have faith, to endure – as if he hadn’t held the other cookie through his panic, hadn’t caught glimpses of a self-loathing so profound it stole his breath away with fear for the other. As if he had not long since realized that Blueberry Milk was just a cookie, as fragile as any other. As if those very lies had not already left an irrevocable stain on Blueberry Milk that he would never escape.)

(As if he was not beginning to find Truth and Deceit – when twined together within the whole of Knowledge – beautiful.)

It was only when he’d moved to sit down on the sofa by the unlit fireplace that Blueberry Milk rejoined him. There was a soft whoosh of air, a dip beside him, and then a pair of slightly more pronounced thumps when he leaned easily against Blueberry Milk’s side, cheek resting on the other’s hair.

Soft fur brushed against his dough, and he stretched out his leg in silent invitation.

The silence, while not stifling, was a little thick, and he could feel Blueberry Milk shifting next to him. And yet – he finally felt – almost peaceful.

“Is it strange? I think I’m rather thankful for your tail.”

A startled sound of surprise, as the appendage in question tightened reflexively, before it suddenly started wiggling up and down along his leg. It took a moment before he realized – wagging! – and then he was hiding his smile in Blueberry Milk’s hair. Letting the scent of winter starlight and blueberry ground him. Even the scent of rot somehow seemed less strong. Or perhaps he’d just gotten accustomed to it.

“Why would you- don’t you think it…peculiar? I mean  – I’m – it’s –“

Pure Vanilla’s hand reached out, unsurprised to find the other’s claws had curled into fists around his robes, and didn’t comment on the way he could feel jam under his palm. Magic made swift work of first removing the bits of cloth pressed into tiny wounds and then healing them, before Pure Vanilla clasping Blueberry Milk’s hand in his own. The other cookie seemed to remember gentleness more when it was Pure Vanilla’s hand he was holding.

“It’s…easier to remember the here and now, because of it. …He didn’t have a tail. Or at least, he never showed me one.”

Blueberry Milk’s sharp intake of breath as he stiffened from shoulders to tail told Pure Vanilla he understood the implication.

“He…called me ‘Nilly,’ too. Back then.” Pure Vanilla took a deep breath of winter crispness and blueberry and murmured, “Forgive me. I know I gave you a fright. I…sometimes I cannot help but be reminded of – even as I see the differences! – and yet the wounds are still…fresh.”

The delicate back and forth of the rough, half charred claws was grounding.

“Would you-“ Blueberry Milk started, then stopped. Tried again. “I don’t have to call you that. It was…just a ridiculous impulse, on my part; t’was not my intention to stir up unhappy memories, I assure you.”

“N-no, I don’t mind. I want to acknowledge your feelings,” Pure Vanilla said hastily, feeling silly and strangely embarrassed as he did so. “I…rather like the idea of nicknames, actually. I’d…like to give you one, too.”

“You- you do?!” Blueberry Milk’s voice was an excited little squeak, before he’d coughed and calmed himself. Pure Vanilla had to hide his grin in the other’s hair as he felt Blueberry Milk nestle into his side, a pleased little rumble beginning to pick up on the edges of his hearing. He wondered if the other even recognized that he was doing it, but knew better than to ask.

“Mhmm. I’ll…have to think on it, though. I’ll tell you, I promise.”

“You could try Milk? That’s what the others called me…”

Pure Vanilla snorted, before saying, bemused, “You’re not supposed to help me, silly.”

“A-ah. Of course, how thoughtless of me…”

Pure Vanilla just smiled, even if it had a melancholy bent. ‘Silly’ reminded him of another cookie. One he’d been studiously trying not to think about.

The rumbling picked up, strangely soothing, as Blueberry Milk’s tail tightened around his leg and claws held firm and steady at his hand.

“Do you…want to talk about it? …Shadow Milk Cookie.”

Hearing that name, uttered by that voice had too many emotions overflowing in Pure Vanilla’s chest at once. Did he want to talk about it? Yes. No. He never wanted to think about it. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Shadow Milk existed in his mind like a looming specter, and every action Blueberry Milk took was in constant tension with it – pulling closer, pushing away. He had thought he’d understood. Accepted Deceit and Doubt as a necessary foil to Truth. And yet, it was in the here and now that he realized how little he had actually understood. Feared he would never understand.

“I don’t…still don’t understand.”

“…I am usually very good at that. You have found…perhaps the best cookie to help you find your answers.”

Pure Vanilla smothered a cheerless smile. The only cookie to help me find my answers.

Eyes closed, he spoke to the scent of blueberry and winter starlight in his nose. The fur around his leg. The rough claw in his hand. Grounding himself.

“It…It’s not about what he did. I accepted that. He shattered me apart. Rebuilt me in his own image. Drowned me in a riptide of self-loathing. Of despair. I forgave him that, even if I cannot forget it. Rather it’s…I saw him, in the end. Truly saw him, I thought. And yet now I cannot help but wonder – did I ever see him at all? Understanding and knowing are two different things. What is the truth, what is the lie – where does one begin and the other end – I can’t tell.”

Shifting around the cookie beside him, trying to coil around Blueberry Milk in a protective embrace and yet craving comfort, Pure Vanilla added, voice exhausted and tinged with doubt, “And…despite all that. Despite all that. I thought I knew what I wanted. It was simple. It is simple. I want him at my side. Neither hurting nor being hurt. And yet-” Pure Vanilla cut himself off with an audible snap. Nothingness shouting loudly in the face of his silence.

I want…something like this. Someone like you. …as if he were you? But I see Shadow Milk in you. And yet… I fear I will not find more than a memory of you in Shadow Milk. It would be too cruel – to see him and yearn for a ghost.  …ha, I understand. How someone could hate the Truth. Because, being here, in this place, forced to see this – to know that you were once this – is this not the cruelest Truth of all?

“Sometimes…I think this must all be a very, very cruel joke.” He finished quietly.

A soft, wet laugh, before claws curled around his sides, settled in his hair hesitantly. “I think I understand what you mean. …we are both cleaved in twain by the unbearable Truth. The insufferable Lie.”

He held the smaller cookie even tighter, eyes shut tight, as if he could forget he didn’t know who he wanted to talk to. “How do you bear it?”

“…not alone.”

A subtle hitch of breath. (The memory of two Soul Jams touching and then a loneliness so vast, so endless, it felt like despair.)

“…but you were.” Came the helpless, whispered Truth.

Claws brushed up and down his back. “…but you’re here now, aren’t you?”

A shudder. “And when this wonderful, beautiful dream ends?”

An unhappy, animal whine, coupled with the prick of claws through cloth, a tail winding almost too tight around his leg. “It won’t come to that.” Then, more controlled, “Anyway, I’m the smartest cookie in all of Earthbread. If you disappear, why must it be to a place I can’t follow? I would find you again. I’m sure of it.”

Chapter Text

Just a Puppet on a Lonely String

Something roiled, hot and uncomfortable, in his gut. It had him clenching his teeth so tightly his jaw ached and his fangs drew jam.  It had gotten worse and worse with every word out of Pure Vanilla’s mouth. About that…other cookie. And yet, as he’d tried to coil tighter around Pure Vanilla, offer comfort and support to the cookie in his arms, some part of him had been howling. I’m here. I’m here! See me!

But he swallowed those incriminating words back.

Instead, he asked, an offer and distraction all at once, “You know, I brought you here to do more than just show off my library. …you wanted to craft a staff, right? To help you see?”

Pure Vanilla hummed softly, voice low and distant, still clearly half a world away. It was…irritating.

A soft growl rattled up his throat, before he had the wherewithal to shove it down into his chest. At least it had Pure Vanilla turning unfocused eyes upon him. “Blueberry Milk…?” came that soft voice, and he didn’t bother to suppress the way he leaned into the hand against his cheek.

Slowly, he reached upwards to cradle Pure Vanilla’s face in his claws. His eyes closed, only for his Eyes to open, and he demanded Pure Vanilla look Knowledge in the face. (It hurt. It always hurt, now. But he ignored the jam that dripped across his cheek, the ache that pulsed behind his eye.) He usually forewent answers without a question…but in this case… he didn’t mind giving out a little hint.

“When you dare to speak the Truth locked behind your lips, then shall my Knowledge be yours.”

And it felt fitting, in that moment, to lean up and press a soft, clumsy kiss to Pure Vanilla’s brow in silent benediction. So he did.

He wasn’t all that surprised by the shock on the other cookie’s face, nor the muted awe, although the awe left him with a faint sense of disappointment. But that was swiftly forgotten as he saw Pure Vanilla’s cheeks slowly darken with color. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he guided the other cookie’s attention towards the books at their feet. (At least Pure Vanilla was looking at him, now.)

A twitch of his fingers had a few of the tomes levitating before settling between them. Flicking one of them open with a practiced movement, it was easy to find the page he needed in a book he knew by heart. Claw tapping, he said, “Getting a vanilla orchid would be difficult; however, we do have local alternatives for you to use, specifically either the vanilla or blueberry beholder species, if you must create a staff. …I could create a pair of spectacles for you, though, if you prefer?”

Pure Vanilla was studying the images with an intent expression that had his insides floating in a way that felt almost like nausea but not quite. The sensation got worse when the other cookie smiled at him, even as Pure Vanilla shook his head.

“Thank you, Blueberry,” He paused, muttered ‘No, not good enough,’ and then added, “I’m rather partial to having a staff. …it just doesn’t feel right, without one. And, are you sure we wouldn’t be able to obtain a vanilla orchid? My magic is most familiar with and attuned to them…”

I…hope that wasn’t his attempt at a nickname… “Ah, I’m afraid obtaining a vanilla orchid would be rather difficult. Would a vanilla beholder be an acceptable alternative?” At the questions building behind Pure Vanilla’s eyes, he quickly added, “Alright, if you must have a flower staff, why don’t we go to the greenhouses? There might be something still usable over there.”

“Greenhouses?” Pure Vanilla asked, a hint of excitement sparking in his eyes.

Trying not to seem too obviously relieved, Blueberry Milk got up hastily, embracing the distraction. “Yes. I’ll show you. Come with me!”

***

Pure Vanilla would submit that he knew gardens. Knew greenhouses. The Vanilla Kingdom had been resplendent with flowers, after all. He also had a more than passing familiarity with ruins. …this was undoubtedly the latter. It was much too cold, for one. Sometimes he’d catch a half-remembered floral scent, but those were often overshadowed by the scent of wet earth, of mildew, of rotting wood.

There was the soft crunch of gravel beneath their feet, and then Blueberry Milk’s rather flat, “I seem to have spoken too soon.”

A claw, reaching for his hand, guiding him around some unseen obstacle, and Pure Vanilla couldn’t help the slightly bewildered tone. “What happened here?”

“…Time.”

An answer and non-answer both. Pure Vanilla dug his feet into damp earth and tugged the other back towards him with an easy movement. “Blueberry Milk Cookie.”

The other’s hand tightened briefly in his, before he was led forward once more. Slowly, they picked past the fragmented remains of what had once been a place of warmth. “What do you think are the first casualties, in times of uncertainty?”

It didn’t feel like an answer. Not until the he heard the soft crunch of sugarglass under his foot, felt the cool wind funneling past them through the skeletal remains of the greenhouse. There was a soft rustle of cloth next to him, the dissatisfied click of a tongue. Whatever had once grown here had long since been forgotten. He understood what Blueberry Milk was getting at – usually beautiful, ephemeral, purposeless things were the first things forsaken in times of strife. And yet…It didn’t feel completely…right.

“…the fields lay fallow and overgrown,” Pure Vanilla recalled, eyes not making out much more than spindly shadows and shades of green-grey-brown in the gloom.

“Hmm?” Blueberry Milk sounded as if he were half present.

“When I first arrived here – I found myself in some sort of abandoned field. It lay fallow.” He turned towards where he could hear Blueberry Milk rummaging about. “I found your Spire because I thought I was headed towards a town or village.”

There was a pause, a silence that seemed to echo. Trying to keep his voice gentle and void of the worry that was beginning to shape his thoughts, Pure Vanilla picked his way towards the sounds and reached out, fingers brushing the other cookie’s hair before frowning as the scholar slipped from his grasp. “What’s going on, Blueberry Milk?”

The other cookie was silent a beat too long. “There has been some…unrest…recently. Not here, of course! But it…spills over, you could say.”

It was an old, familiar tune. Pure Vanilla knew the prelude to violence – to war – far too well. He waited quietly, until the silence had Blueberry Milk continuing. “There’s been…talk. Of cookies, displaced by famine, or violence.  As if the Flatlands were no longer fertile, or the great houses of the Spice Kingdoms deci-. Well. As you can imagine, it has many a cookie worried.”

Somehow…he had…forgotten. Even though he had touched the lingering effects of corruption on Blueberry Milk’s face with his own two hands. …this was not just his own personal farce, nor just Blueberry Milk's personal tragedy. This was…the bitter finale of an era. The end of a golden age.

And Blueberry Milk had made no mention.

“What of…what of the people here?” Pure Vanilla asked hesitantly, uncertain what the question meant to him, but knowing it was important.

Blueberry Milk’s voice was cautious. Something that might have been cold. “There have been no famines nor wars, if that is what you’re asking.” The sound of steps moving further away. Deeper into the gloom.

Pure Vanilla hastened after the other. There was something in Blueberry Milk’s voice. A low undercurrent of exhaustion. A tension that spoke of pain and something darker. Angrier. As if the other cookie had been struggling under some Sisyphean task.  

“Bluebe-“ He started again; wondering if he should dare to ask about the other Beasts. Virtues?

He didn’t have the chance.

The scholar suddenly spoke. Voice sharp in a way he’d rarely heard from Blueberry Milk. (A way he remembered all too clearly from when Shadow Milk had been frustrated and incredulous and angry, backed into a proverbial corner.)

“What are you asking, Pure Vanilla Cookie!” A curt, frustrated noise, followed by the sound of something sweeping back and forth rapidly before, more calmly, Blueberry Milk spoke again. “If you are asking about the welfare of this kingdom, then the citizens are as well as can be expected. The have received exactly what they asked for. Unlike the rest of the kingdoms of the continent, we have stability here, in the Lactenwald. If you are asking why there might be fallow fields or forgotten greenhouses here, then I cannot answer you. Neither were mine to keep.”

Strangely, hearing Blueberry Milk’s distress felt like suffering a physical blow. Pure Vanilla reached out to the other cookie, hands searching until he could cup the scholar’s cheeks, until his thumb could brush along the fractured corruption tainting Blueberry Milk’s dough. He frowned as he brushed aside the faint trail of jam that stained the other’s cheek.

“I would not condemn you, Blueberry Milk Cookie.  No matter what others might say, nor what you might fear. I just…want to understand you. However, I cannot help but care for the well-being of all cookies. Especially when it sounds like these times are so…troubled. …But that includes you too, Blueberry Milk. I promise.”

A ruined cheek, pressed into his palm. The faint stickiness of fresh jam. “You cannot…you cannot say that so easily, Pure Vanilla. You…you know so little of me.”

Sighing helplessly, Pure Vanilla leaned down to press his lips to Blueberry Milk’s brow in much the same way the other had done to him, before. The tiny, startled sound he received in return had him smiling fondly at the other cookie. “I suspect I know more than you think I do, Blueberry Milk.”

Ignoring the sputtering, hand snagging Blueberry Milk’s in his own, he led the other back the way they’d come as if he could see where they were going. “Let’s go into town then tomorrow, to get me that Vanilla Beholder, okay? …there must be one, around here, surely?”

“-mean you know more- well, yes, of course there is, but if we’re to go anywhere, it must be Heidelbeere – Wait – Nilly, you’ve been taking us in the completely wrong direction. Nilly!”

(It was easier to focus on leading them in circles – the blind leading the blind – than to let his mind wander back to Blueberry Milk’s frustrated anger. Than to think on how – when he considered the barren fields, the overgrown heath, the decrepit greenhouse – It was almost like Blueberry Milk was being isolated.)

Chapter Text

Wishes Come True, Not Free

It had been a terrible, terrible idea and he was a fool. A thrice-damned fool. He should never have agreed – should have paid more attention – should have focused on the words Pure Vanilla spoke and not just the relief at having the topic of ‘unrest’ dropped. Should have followed the thought of not being able to find a serviceable vanilla beholder to its logical conclusion of 'then we have to go purchase one.' Should never have been distracted by those frightful thoughts: What if he knows? Does he know what some of them have taken to calling us? Would he say the same?

And so, here he was, staring at his own reflection in consternation. He had agreed to take Pure Vanilla to Heidelbeere. But he couldn’t do that. He didn’t want to expose Pure Vanilla to the vitriol and unease that surrounded him. Not when he didn’t know exactly how much Pure Vanilla knew.

(And how had he forgotten? That Pure Vanilla was presumably from the future? But really, there was no other conclusion – Pure Vanilla couldn’t be from the past, because there was no past earlier than his own, one of the first five cookies ever baked. And the thought that Pure Vanilla was from the present – that this was all some elaborate machination – was simply too painful to bear. So, Pure Vanilla must be from the future, and that relieved and distressed him in equal measure. Not only because Pure Vanilla might one day- ……but because history was always written by the victors. And he was already being written out of the history of a place that had once been…his home. But really, what did the future matter when somehow – the only wish he’d never dared voice – was here? In his grasp.)

So. The Fount of Knowledge and Pure Vanilla Cookie could not be seen walking about the city together. It would save them a load of trouble both. And while illusion magics, transformative magics, had always come frightfully easy to him (were coming even easier, now, as the corruption set in), he didn’t know how Pure Vanilla would…react.

With a deep, calming breath, he emptied his mind of everything but what he Knew of Blueberry Cobbler Cookie (the shade of her hair, the curve of her smile, the gentle excitement, the love of theater) until Blueberry Cobbler was reflected before him. A giddy smile broke out across her face as she spun with a quiet giggle. Blueberry Cobbler was whole, hale, and healthy, and best of all, had no troubles to speak of.

Although…she did have a cookie she wanted to look her best for.

***

Pure Vanilla waited patiently at the Spire’s entrance for his companion. Their previous discussion had left him feeling a little… unsettled. Not out of fear of whatever Blueberry Milk was hiding from him (he was fairly confident the other cookie couldn’t actually hide anything from him) but rather because…he’d gotten sucked into the illusion. That he and Blueberry Milk were the only two cookies in this world. That he could indulge in this beautiful dream without care.

(That fate wasn’t marching ever onward).

A soft rustle of cloth descending towards the foyer, and Pure Vanilla turned, a smile already tugging at his lips. “Good Morning,” he said, holding out one hand easily.

A gentle, feminine giggle, and then a hand was delicately placed in his own. “Good morrow, my Lord.”

Head whipping back and forth as he tried to make sense of the voice he didn’t know, the hand he didn’t recognize, he said, feeling slightly unmoored, “Blueberry Milk Cookie?”

A slightly embarrassed chuckle, and then the rustle of skirts in what he realized must have been a perfectly executed curtsy. “I’m afraid not, dear. Blueberry Cobbler Cookie, at your service.” Pure Vanilla’s mind flashed to a series of portraits in a different Spire a lifetime away; a beautiful young cookie with pretty silver hair and a demure, knowing little smile.

Perhaps the silence had gone on too long. There was a hint of uncertainty in that melodic voice that was all Blueberry Milk. “I…hope this does not trouble you?”

Pure Vanilla started, before a smile worked its way over his face. Feeling slightly playful himself, he reached blindly for Blueberry Cobbler’s hand, bending over it in a proper bow. “Of course not, my lady. Forgive my inattention. How might I make it up to you?”

A giggle, and then a hand was tucked into the crook of his arm. “Oh, I am sure I shall think of something. Come now, I am eager to be off to Heidelbeere – let us make a proper day of it!”

They arrived at Heidelbeere in a working of magic so casually powerful it left Pure Vanilla flabbergasted. “You – you – just now – how –“

A tinkling little laugh; a delicate, feminine hand patted his arm gently. “Come now, dear. Surely you can’t be so impressed with that old thing?”

Blueberry Cobbler’s hand slid from his arm to his hand, pulling at Pure Vanilla eagerly. “Come! We’ve maybe a 10 minute walk before we reach the main gates – there’s so much I want to show you-“

Picking their way from the secluded little grove they had arrived in, they soon made their way from a worn animal track onto a neatly cobbled biscuit-road. And then, slowly, it swelled. Sound. Beyond the ever-present thrum of the rushing river. Voices. Cookies of every kind, hawking their wares, advertising, bargaining, chatting, debating. His eyes opened, trying to take in anything he could, even if it was little more than a blurred mass of light and shadow, pops of color at the corners of his vision. The sound of excited, impassioned speech from where the scent of tea and juice lingered, The scrape of shoe and chair on stone, the drifting half heard lessons of students and teachers-

The quiet brush of fingers over his palms; he could almost imagine the delicate touch of claws. “Welcome to the City of Knowledge.” The words had been soft and gentle, spoken for him alone. Filled with a strange sort of pride and tentative hope all at once.

Pure Vanilla squeezed the hands in his own gently. “It’s beautiful.”

A hint of relief. “I’m glad.”

***

It wasn’t like the Vanilla Kingdom. The Vanilla Kingdom was a place of humble cookies, brought together by suffering to try and rebuild something better. More beautiful. The Vanilla Kingdom was light and airy – filled with sunlight and gardens and birds and gold from the edges of the desert to the fields of grain.

The air here was cooler, damp in a way that spoke of a faint mist, easily explained by the steady thrum of what was surely a massive milk-river. It made him think of the Crème Republic, briefly, but there was no scent of salt. And…little in the way of that forced, perfect cheer Gingerbrave had described to him (although that had lessened, after the battle). Sound echoed around them in a way that spoke of being in some sort of great valley. Blueberry Cobbler explained eagerly at his question, describing a vast marvel of a city, tucked between the rapids of the fork of the Skim Milk River, capped by the regal peaks scattered amongst the ancient forest of the Lactenwald.

“-Heidelbeere is the beating heart of Gnosia – here you’ll find all manner of academia – up that way are the Institutes; although…if one were to want something slightly less…stuffy, then the salons are available for enthusiastic, if not always rhetorically sound, debate. Oh – and the Forum – wait, no, I think they’ve taken to calling it the commons, now – well, you can always catch a properly formulated debate or sometimes even a play there. Or minstrels performing. There’s nothing quite like listening to good music with a warm pasty in hand-“

Feeling a little overwhelmed at the deluge of information, Pure Vanilla tugged the other cookie close, tucking Blueberry Cobbler’s hand back into the crook of his elbow. “…you like minstrels?”

A soft, embarrassed laugh. “Oh. Ah, was that too much?”

Patting the hand tucked in his arm gently, Pure Vanilla said, “Not at all. I like listening to what you have to say – it’s all interesting. I just – I suppose I didn’t realize, that you’d like something as…um…well, subjective? as minstrels and such.”

A tinkling, amused laugh. “Oh, you silly cookie,” a sudden, undignified snort, “Silly Vanilly! Knowledge comes in all shapes and sizes! And I consider myself something of a connoisseur of all things literary. Plays and ballads and epics and poetry – what are they but the mode by which we cookies study ourselves?”

Pure Vanilla hadn’t been able stop the way he stumbled at the familiar term (although, an endearment, this time?) Blueberry Cobbler caught him, and brushed off his robes deliberately. “Are you quite alright? We really should get you that beholder, first…”

She was fussing over him. It spoke to a quiet anxiety and discomfort, a soft worry that had Pure Vanilla tucking a few strands of silver hair behind rounded ears, before pressing a chaste kiss to the back of one well-manicured hand. “Forgive me for worrying you, my lady.”

Blueberry Cobbler made…a noise. "W-well, that’s two things you’ll need to repay me for!”

Laughing, Pure Vanilla caught up and snagged Blueberry Cobbler’s hand again, saying, “You mentioned being an expert in ‘all things literary?’ Well, what’s your favorite story, then? Or play or poem, perhaps?”

Swinging their linked hands before leaning against Pure Vanilla, arms curling around his, Blueberry Cobbler said, words spilling from her lips without restraint, “Well, there’s this one lovely play – about fairy tales and consequences, about wishes and wants and the differences between them, of the dangers of getting what you wished for – about the warnings built into this world – those ‘villains’ who are the real ‘Truth.’ And of course, the lyrics and wordplay are sublime – the music riveting…”

Pure Vanilla was not exactly…listening. Or he was – but also to the cadence of Blueberry Cobbler’s voice. The excitement in her tone. He was sure her eyes would be near aglow with her passion. I want to see Blueberry Milk like this.

“I’ll see if I can scrounge up a private showing for us – oh, look, we’re here. Ah, perfect, Nilly, can you sense a beholder you like?”

 Somehow, it was startlingly easy to obtain a vanilla beholder that would suit his purposes. His magic knew the one it wanted. In fact, the only interesting thing about the whole ordeal was the way the shop keeper, with a teasing smile in his voice, said, “Hmmm, that’s all? Not going to get a flower or two for your lady love? Surely, that’s a face that would suit a dozen exquisite flowers?”

“O-oh, really, that’s – that’s all we’ll be needing, I assu-“

“Have you any blue flowers, sir?”

“Pure Vanilla…?” Blueberry Cobbler asked, sounding slightly faint.

The other cookie laughed, adding, “Of course, my good man. We have here a whole selection of flowers for your perusal. Blueberry beholders, to match your vanilla beholder, single bell-flowers, a bell-flower bouquet, all varieties of candy flowers – including blue, hydrangeas in blue, red, and purple, bluebells, forget-me-nots-“

“Oh,” Pure Vanilla breathed.

“Hmmm?” The shopkeeper asked, sensing another purchase.

It felt as if the very air were holding its breath.

Pulling Blueberry Cobbler forwards with him, Pure Vanilla reached out to the blurry blobs of blue in his vision, scent and touch guided him true.

Gently, almost tenderly, he pulled forth a single sprig – bluebells on their stalk. “These.”

Careful hands rose to reverently tuck the sprig behind one ear. There was a soft, quiet shuffling, the air thick with emotion, before Blueberry Cobbler’s hand slipped inside his, and her voice came in that soft, hesitant way that was all Blueberry Milk (Shadow Milk).

“Bluebells?”

“Mhmm. I think it… fitting.”

“Ah. So you are…familiar…with flower language, then?”

“So long as it hasn’t changed too much throughout the years, I suppose.”

A soft, quiet laughter. “I cannot help but wonder which one of us would have the correct understanding, then.”

Squeezing Blueberry Cobbler’s hand gently, he replied, “does it matter? Why not as many, or as few, meanings as we like? …perhaps it’s a gesture of my gratitude, at your kindness? An acknowledgement and encouragement of your constancy and endurance?”

A soft, amused laugh, followed by a teasing, “Or perhaps a wish to bind me to the Truth – as if I were trapped in a Faerie Circle?”

Pure Vanilla’s cheeks colored, and he couldn’t help but think of the Soul Jam tucked against his breast, hidden beneath his robes. “Ahah, maybe…?” He said, scratching at his cheek.

Blueberry Cobbler hummed, falling silent, as if she didn’t quite dare to speak the last meaning aloud. Then again, Pure Vanilla didn’t mind. The hand in his own – soft, delicate, feminine - with the faint prick of claws against his dough felt like promise enough.

Chapter Text

Do You Hear the People Sing?

Staring curiously at the warm pastry in his hands, Pure Vanilla asked, “You called this a…pasty?”

Humming in agreement, Blueberry Cobbler nodded. “Yes. They’re considered street food hence…this…” The rustle of cloth, as his companion presumably gestured towards the rest of the busy market place and the vendors not too far away. “But they tend to come in either sweet or savory varieties. Yours is the more standard savory kind – it has some vegetables and meat jellies in it – this one is of the sweet variety.” A brush of fingers against his hand, and then, “you can have the rest of mine, if you’d like? Just to try.”

With a helpless smile, Pure Vanilla pushed the pastry back towards Blueberry Cobbler, saying, “No, I’m quite alright. Not that I don’t appreciate your generosity, but you should eat, too. I can just get the sweet pasty next time.”

There was a sharp intake of breath, and then a heavy silence settled over them both, as Pure Vanilla realized what he’d said. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to take it back. There was the quiet scuff of a soft-soled shoe on the cobbled street, and then Blueberry Cobbler sounded a little closer, voice a little more hushed. “I…think I’d like that.”

With an embarrassed cough but a silly smile, Pure Vanilla responded, “G-Good. Good.”

Thankfully, Blueberry Cobbler took pity on him, because she asked, voice soft and a little amused, “Aren’t you going to bond with the beholder? Wasn’t getting you a visual aid the whole point of this excursion today?”

Or, perhaps, not quite as helpful a distraction as she’d maybe intended. Feeling heat begin to creep up his neck, Pure Vanilla answered, “Well, yes, but weren’t you going to help me make it? You sounded like you had a few special spells in mind….”

At least he wasn’t the only one sounding a little embarrassed. “Well, yes, of course I’ll help you. But we can always do that later, back at the- home.”

Latching on to that moment of weakness so as to not have to explain why he really didn’t want to craft some ad-hoc seeing implement, he teased, “Oh? What was that? Not used to calling the Sp-“

Of course, his companion was neither slow on the uptake nor going to allow herself to go down without a fight. “I thought you wanted to see, though? Isn’t that what you said? Now you can! Why wait?”

Drat. Pure Vanilla’s attention turned to the sound of a gathering crowd descending into the commons, before sighing. He’d already admitted it before, after all. “I told you, didn’t I? …I want to see you, well, you know. Only you.”

He could hear Blueberry Cobbler’s sharp, sudden intake of breath. The wet undercurrent to her wobbly, “Oh.”

Pure Vanilla reached out, fingers ghosting along until he brushed the other cookie’s cloak. His hand settled around the scholar and pulled her closer, until they were standing shoulder to shoulder. “…yes. Oh.”

“Do you want to go home?” Came the hushed voice.

And it was…tempting. But…this was a new place, and a fun outing, and who knew when he’d be able to do something like this again. Even as an abdicated king, Pure Vanilla couldn’t remember the last time he’d truly been anonymous.

“…we can do that at any time, you know. I…you brought us here for a reason, didn’t you?”

A soft hum, followed by a head leaning against his shoulder. “I said it before, did I not? Sometimes they put on plays, or bring out the bards or troubadours. I thought it might be nice to see if we could catch a performance.”

“Ah,” Pure Vanilla nodded, hand moving to wrap around Blueberry Cobbler’s form, fingers brushing against silvery strands gently. “Is that what that crowd is doing, over there?”

“…a little more to the right, dear, but yes. Very likely. Do you want to have a look?” A pause, Blueberry Cobbler shifting against him. “Ah, looks like it might be a debate, though. Or perhaps a thesis?”

With a slight smile of his own, Pure Vanilla got up from where they were both sitting on the lip of one of the fountains dotting the plaza, and tugged his companion over easily. “Both of which are bound to be interesting in this City of Knowledge, no?”

Even just a little closer the noise swiftly swelled. There was clearly quite a crowd gathering. Or perhaps, given the sharp staccato sounds of too many voices talking to and at and over each other, people were just angry.

“-telling you! It’s not just another baseless rumor! I heard it from one o’ those briny cookies myself! Met ‘im on the way to that shanty settlement, up beyond the First Silver River! The Flatlands are salted, salted, I tell you! And it’s all that Beast’s fault! They say that the great Lord of Solidarity has gone mad – forsaking companions, nature, other cookies! That he salted the very earth in his madness!”

Another excited voice chimed in, “I heard that those cookies unlucky enough to be caught in the blast were done and dusted! Poof! Turned to salt!”

“An’ don’ ferget the decimation of the tribes of the Spice Lands! They say the ‘Erald is callin’ ‘imself the ‘Great Destroyer’ or sommat like that, now!”

“I heard he goes around killing anything that moves – lines up his foes and destroys one-in-ten just ‘cause!”

“Oh, those poor cookies…”

“Oh yeah – well – that ain’t nut’in’. I heard that those foolish cookies who venture towards the Ivory Pagoda or into the Sugarlands don’t ever return! Gone! Never seen from again!”

“Yes. Yes. How very…riveting.” A new voice, cultured and cold cut through the cacophony of chatter like a blade. “And yet, I fear, you all miss the mark. Or have you all conveniently forgotten that we’re all living on borrowed time with a very Beast of our own on our doorstep?”

“B-but; ‘is Lordship is-“

“Yes, yes. The Fount of All-Knowledge. Cut from the very same dough as those monsters! Or have you all forgotten.” The words were contemptuous. Cutting. “How very thankful must we be, then? That our so-called ‘lord’ is not here in our time of need? That he responds to our concerns with lies? Or have you all forgotten those worthless reassurances – that ‘everything would be fine?’ That we ‘wouldn’t be touch by starvation nor plague?’ And what does he suggest? Some hair-brained scheme to plant less food for more people and keep more fields fallow? And that a portion of the grains and foodstuffs we need for ourselves be set aside for our cream sheep?! Never mind that we’re being inundated by the displaced and destitute! And then closing our ports – keeping the valuable resources from the Flour Mountains out of our hands for weeks with a ridiculous charade of isolation out of some so-called concern over infection?”

“B-but isn’ tha-“

“But what?! Does any of this actually make sense?! To any of you?!”

(Pure Vanilla’s ears were ringing, the world going even more white and colorless than normal. He couldn’t feel Blueberry Cobbler’s fingers in his nerveless grasp.)

Another voice. A sotto whisper, cruel and relentless. “An’ did you hear? I heard that the Fount’s locked himself away in that Tower of his. Last I heard he was playin’ with strange magics. Dark magics. Touched by the foul shadows themselves! Cursed, ‘e is.”

“They say he had to part ways with the Academy over it.”

“What if he’s the reason the Lords have all-“

“Hush! Witches, what sort of blasphemy is this-“

“Forget that - is he even fit to lead us anymore?”

“SHHH! Hold your tongue! Do you want to draw the attention of the Academia?!”

“Well, who’s to say they don’t agree with us, too? You know how it’s been – the Fount comin’ out less and less, doin’ Witches-knows-what in that Tower ‘o his, barely even answerin’ our questions when that’s the whole point. An’ when ‘e does, it’s never a good answer.”

“Oh, yes, even the easy questions don’t get good answers  – did you hear about Lady Lingonberry Cookie? She asked the Fount about the wedding prospects between her son and the esteemed Lady Margarine Cookie – apparently the Fount said that Lord Grey Cookie would be better suited to that minstrel – Bergamot Cookie!”

“…what? No, really?”

“Yeah. Or there was the time when-“

It was the sort of nonsense that had Pure Vanilla surfacing to reality as if he was just barely cresting the surface of the Licorice Sea. He turned, face wooden, towards Blueberry Cobbler Cookie, only to feel his thin veneer of calm shatter like stale dough. Blueberry Cobbler was shaking, her face so wan she looked…ill. It was as if there was no more blueberry in her dough at all; just something ugly; pallid and grey.

His grip was a vice around the other cookie’s hand, and he started tugging her bodily – anywhere so long as it was away from here – a litany of encouraging nonsense escaping his lips. “It’s okay, Come on, It’s okay – let’s go, please, Bluebell, let’s go home, okay? Please Bluebell. Just keep it together until we get back to the Spire.”

They barely made it out of the commons, much less out of the city entirely. Instead, Pure Vanilla kept a near death grip on Blueberry Cobbler – just loose enough that the other cookie could help lead him into what turned out to be a narrow, blind alleyway. He held the quivering cookie close. At this point, Blueberry Milk’s hold on his magic had become a tenuous thing at best, and the pressure of magic around them was thick and heavy. The scholar took them back to the Spire in a poorly controlled teleportation spell that appeared more as a ragged seam ripped through realty connecting to the Other Realm rather than a stable portal.

They fell out in a tangle of limbs, Pure Vanilla unsteady on his feet and Blueberry Milk already clawing to get away, to escape Pure Vanilla’s hold. Blueberry Milk sloughed off Blueberry Cobbler’s visage like a snake shedding its skin. His magic continued to spark, something seething and heavy and massive, coiling into his hair as the strands started to wave and undulate slowly; eyes in his hair blinking open sleepily, shutting, oozing black like tears; cracks about his face curving ever deeper into fragile dough. Jam dripping over his lips, down his chin, bubbling from his eye to curve down his cheek.

Blueberry Milk looked almost…bestial. Two thirds the way to Shadow Milk and certainly a ruin. And yet, he was silent. No screaming, no rage, no roar. Just a broken cookie desperately trying to keep the pain in. As Pure Vanilla let his staff clatter to the floor he gathered Blueberry Milk into his arms, hauling the other half into his lap, hand smoothing down the other’s back as he held the other cookie as tightly as he could, whispering, “It’s okay, Bluebell. It’s okay. Let it out. I’m here - I’ll still be here. I told you – I will never condemn you. Not now, not ever.”

There was a single, agonized, animal whine. And then, finally.

Tears.

Chapter Text

I’m Not Afraid of You Now

One of the benefits of his ascension he appreciated the most was the increase in height and strength it afforded him. Not that he had ever been physically weak – working with cream sheep for decades on end had necessitated physical strength – but it meant he was able to hoist Blueberry Milk into his arms with barely a thought and negligible effort.

Or perhaps the Fount was just that light.

Padding once again towards that quiet little sitting room, he simply held the other close. The scholar was still crying – he could feel it, dampening his robes – but other than the persistent tremble in thin shoulders, the tail looped just a little too tightly around his waist, the claws clenched so desperately around his back he feared Blueberry Milk was going to draw jam, there was no proof. No sound.

Was it fitting? That Blueberry Milk shattered apart so silently? How many times had he done this? All alone?

***

Tired. He was so tired. Nothing he did was ever enough. No one listened, no one cared to understand, no one afforded him even the most minute droplet of compassion, and he was so, so tired of screaming into this void of aching silence. Reaching out. No one ever reaching back.

Vanilla.

He shifted, pressing further into warmth. I’m so cold.

Arms, curling around him. Broad hands, sliding along the curve of his spine like a brand. Searing.

A voice, quiet and steady and gentle, pressed against his temple. “Tell me five things you feel?”

A soft huff, a flash of memory – he’d done that too, the last time, hadn’t he? “…warmth. You’re so warm. Hands – on my back. …breath. Against my hair.” His mind stuttered, still feeling frozen and sluggish. He pressed closer, nose seeking the comforting scent of vanilla. “…vanilla. Your vanilla. …the thrum of your jam.”

Soft laughter, reverberating through his entire dough. Soothing. It’s so soothing. “’I rather feel most – all - of those things are…one thing…’”

It should have been hard to smile. And yet, somehow, he was still able to hide one away against Pure Vanilla’s neck. “Copy-cat.”

“Well, you know what they say about mimicry.”

Nuzzling a little more firmly into Pure Vanilla’s embrace as his limbs and tail finally lost their death grip on the other, he murmured, “Hush, you.”

A hand, brushing through his hair. It was an odd feeling – vision expanding and contracting as eyes popped open and closed in his hair, in the Spire around them – knowing too much and understanding too little – but he melted against the other cookie all the same. When was the last time anyone…? Had anyone ever…? Not like this.

“Well, I learned from the best, after all.” Pure Vanilla replied with a smile in his voice, fingertips brushing gently over one pointed ear.

It had all of his eyes falling open, again. Slowly, like he was dragging himself through molasses, he pushed away from Pure Vanilla just enough to look the other in the eyes.

“Even…even like…this?” He whispered, voice incredulous. Hopeful. He knew how monstrous he must appear – the corruption staining his soul too close to the surface to hide. Knew what Pure Vanilla had heard – the rumors (the truth) twisted and barbed and uncaring.

Pure Vanilla’s hands cupped his cheeks, thumb brushing away the jam beading from his eye. Lips, pressing against Algiz on his brow. Pure Vanilla looking at him so tenderly. “Especially like this.” A fond smile. “I have always wanted to meet the Fount of Knowledge.”

Maybe it was those words. Maybe it was just that expression. But it had him leaning heavily back against Pure Vanilla, flaming cheeks hidden against the other cookie’s neck. A loud, rumbling purr erupted out of his chest. Even holding his breath didn’t stop the sound for long. So, he pressed closer still, as if he could muffle the sounds against Pure Vanilla’s dough. (It didn’t work. Of course it didn’t work. He’d known it wouldn’t from the beginning. But Pure Vanilla didn’t seem to mind.)

“…I hope you don’t regret it,” He mumbled at last, the words feeling a little like Knowledge on his tongue.

There was a brief pause, a momentary stillness of the hand smoothing up and down his spine. And then, arms wrapping almost too-tight around his frame, a vow being whispered into his hair. “I don’t think I even could.”

***

While he technically needed neither sustenance nor sleep, there was something to be said for the hazy stillness of a mind on the verge of sleep. He felt…quiet. At peace. Warm within and without. Even that wretched rumbling was soothing. Or maybe he’d just lost his mind completely. After all, he was actually beginning to believe that he really was sitting in the arms of someone who appeared to want Blueberry Milk Cookie, corrupted Fount of Knowledge and all.

So, of course, Pure Vanilla had to interrupt it. “Do you…want to talk about it?”

With a groan that was half a growl, he knocked his head a few times gently against Pure Vanilla’s shoulder while his tail stopped it’s gentle swaying to curl around Pure Vanilla’s leg instead. “…must we start this now?”

Pure Vanilla didn’t even have the good grace to look abashed, and instead just poked at his scarred cheek gently.

With a heaving sigh, he flopped back down even more heavily, taking a tiny thrill of victory when the other cookie let out a whoosh of air. If he was doing this, he was doing it comfortably.

Large hands wrapped securely around his waist, and he mumbled, trying not to sound too petulant, “What’s there to even talk about? They hate me, and they’re morons. The whole lot of them. …Maybe I should abdicate. It’d serve them right. Good riddance.”

“Blueberry Milk Cookie,” came that voice, soft and gentle and disappointed.

Claws spasming around Pure Vanilla he held himself even closer, as if to stop himself from pushing Pure Vanilla away (as if to stop Pure Vanilla from throwing him away). “What.” He growled into the other’s neck unhappily. “You think I care? About those cookies? With naught but fluff between their ears? No sense between them? If they cannot understand the Witches-forsaken sense of a blasted crop rotation-“

A hand, brushing so close to the fur of his tail it had him freezing, falling utterly silent. “You would not be as you are, if you did not care.”

Flinching, he whispered, voice hoarse,” You’re not supposed to just come out and say that.” Slowly, his tail began waving, in an out of Pure Vanilla’s gentle grasp.

“But it’s true,” came that terrible, gentle tone.

The words set his teeth on edge. It hurts. Why does it always hurt so much?

Pure Vanilla’s voice came slowly, distantly. As if the other cookie were thinking out loud. Trying to work out the answer to a particularly difficult problem. “It’s…it’s not too late, yet. Why don’t we…try and help them understand? I’m sure we could do it.”

There was…a ringing, in his ears. His body felt too big and small, all at once. His voice was thready to his own ears. “…we?”

Fingers, gently tracing the tapered curve of his ear. Cupping tenderly at the sprig of bluebells tucked there. “Yes, Bluebell.”

He pulled away shakily, wanting – needing – to see. Pure Vanilla smiled at him. At him! The Beast with too many eyes in his hair, corruption on his hands, jam on his cheek, disfigurement cracked into his dough. He swallowed unevenly. His eyes stung.

“O-okay,” he whispered, before leaning in quickly, inexperienced lips pressing against warm dough somewhere in the vicinity of Pure Vanilla’s cheek and mouth.

“Okay,” he whispered again, still shaking, trying to bury himself within the spaces between Pure Vanilla’s ribs, face flaming, feeling too much and not enough.

***

“You called me ‘Bluebell.’” Blueberry Milk started as he led the way back towards the library.

Pure Vanilla didn’t quite register the comment, still dazed. Blueberry Milk had – Blueberry Milk had- was that a- a kiss?! It couldn’t have been, could it? Too fleeting, too soft – he knew some cookies in the Hollyberry Kingdom and the Crème Republic often greeted each other that way – but still – this was Blueberry Milk Cookie – the other half of his soul-

An idle tug of fur on his calf, familiar and comforting, and his eyes took in that familiar blur of colors – cyan and cobalt and silver and midnight blue, and he coughed to cover his distraction. Taking a stab at a reply, he eyed what looked like some sort of…loose top? tunic? (and hose?) hurriedly. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in clothes like those, before?”

There was the strangest combination of something exasperated and amused, curling in his chest (not his?) and then Blueberry Milk said, voice utterly deadpan, “What, you expect me to not have clothes on, under my robes? …I said you called me…’Bluebell.’”

“Oh! Ah-“ coughing even harder, color crawled across his cheeks. “…well…it seemed, fitting? How do you like it? For a nickname, I mean.”

A soft, continuous swish, so fast it almost seemed like- (That is definitely his tail.  …I want to see!) Then the soft pad of the other turning away to tread up the stairs once more, and- (Oh. That is definitely going to be distracting.)

“It…could be worse, I suppose,” Blueberry Milk’s voice came after a moment, interrupting his thoughts. Then, a barely there huff of breath. “’Bluebell’ and ‘Nilly,’ huh?”

Unable to completely suppress the joy bubbling in his heart, Pure Vanilla hurried forward those few extra steps to snag Blueberry Milk’s hand. “A tunic, I think? …and I would like to go make my new staff, now, please and thank you.”

Claws squeezed gently at his hand even as the other said, dryly, “What else would we be doing? Making that staff with you would be the first thing I’ve accomplished in far too long! …and what else would I wear? Did you really think I just wandered around in a cowl and robes and naught else?”

“Oh, well…uh…”

“…please! Surely you’re wearing something under that, too?!”

Feeling strangely embarrassed, Pure Vanilla hauled the other cookie forwards, ignoring the warmth that blossomed in his chest at the soft, snickering laughter. “Silly Vanilly~ Such impropriety. Really, and here I thought you a proper gentlecookie…”

“You have no right to talk, ‘Lord Clingy-Tail.’”

“I! Ah-“ Ah. Much better. Ah…this is rather fun.

The feel of light on his dough, the soft movement of Blueberry Milk pushing past him into the library followed by the other cookie saying, sounding terribly flustered, “Your vanilla beholder. Give it here. We are doing something productive today.”

Proffering the item, he hovered close to Blueberry Milk, listening to the other mutter to himself. It was…nice. Seeing Blueberry Milk so focused on creating something. Then the scholar asked, focused on the task at hand, “You know how to attune to the beholder, yes?”

Humming his agreement, Pure Vanilla simply held out his hand for the flower, taking it carefully from his companion. “…good.” Blueberry Milk added. “Just focus on forming the connection, then. I’ll craft the working.”

It was different from the time when he’d made his last staff. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t alone. His magic, seeping into the vanilla beholder. Becoming his arm. His eyes. His Eyes. And his Soul Jam, singing at his chest. In his heart. In his soul.

And then there was Another.

Standing at the edges of an endless ocean, eyes on the vast cosmos unraveling above. A tiny cookie, perched at the edges of the world met, adored, entwined with falling divinity. Truth a joyous and somber song, dancing with Deceit, fitting into the harmony of Knowledge like it had always been there. (It had.) A magic, so great and vast, yet so impossibly small and fragile, nestled in the safekeeping of his heart. Two Soul Jams (One Soul Jam. It was only ever one. Knowledge was only ever complete within Itself. Deceit could not exist without Truth. To Know the Truth was to see the Lie. Blueberry Milk could hide even from himself, but a Lie was still a Lie.) singing, in perfect harmony.

His eyes opened.

Chapter Text

And You Made It Shine (There When He Cried, You Saved His Life)

He could not stop looking.

Blueberry Milk was- “Beautiful.”

That dear face, shooting upwards, mouth dropping open in shock. The glimpse of half-remembered fangs. Hair, not quite writhing, but curling unevenly. Mussed. Eyes, blinking open sleepily in a scant few locks, before winking closed once more. Eyes – more beautiful still – one cyan and scarred, slit pupil blown wide as jam trailed the furrows of a half-healed wound – the other a rich, deep cobalt, silver pupil seeming to glow against pale lashes. A cherished face, even if stained by tear tracks and dried jam and fractured dough. Familiar claws half charred by corruption clutching at a heaving chest. A Soul Jam, familiar yet not (and somehow, one he Knew as well as his own), Eye just barely open.

In a daze, Pure Vanilla moved closer, his own staff held aloft in his magic, to keep Blueberry Milk in his sight. He could feel the beginnings of a connection singing, bright and true, deep in his soul, resonating in his Soul Jam. “Of course, of course! Oh, I was such a fool-” His hands cupped the scholar’s cheeks, drinking in Blueberry Milk’s visage like a starving man finally allowed to slake his thirst. “I see you. Oh – you are so beautiful! My dear, dear Fount-”

Blueberry Milk made a sound that struck straight past his dough into his soul, the cookie’s own staff slipping from nerveless fingers to clatter on the floor. Clawed hands wrapped around him in a too desperate hold while a tail unceremoniously wrapped around him in a vice. Some weakly curling tendrils of hair twined around his fingers at Blueberry Milk’s cheeks of their own accord.

“Did you…feel that? Please tell me you felt that.”

“I did.” Pure Vanilla whispered. “I promise you. I did.”

It didn’t matter, did it? Whether it was Blueberry Milk or Shadow Milk or now or then. His soul reached for its other half just the same.

(There was only ever one. How could Deceit exist without Knowledge of Truth?)

***

Truthfully, he was still shaken. Extremely so. He hadn’t expected a simple magical working to become…that.

It had almost…felt like…Pure Vanilla had…touched his…soul?

(He was too scared to even think the word.)

Thankfully, Pure Vanilla was either willing to let it go…or in too much of a daze to do more than just hold out a soft cloth as he washed his face.

Grimacing as he tried not to irritate his injury too much, he huffed in quiet relief as Pure Vanilla wordlessly offered to clean it for him. The healing magic sinking into his dough was strangely soothing, calming (dare he say affectionate?) in a way that had him melting into the touch and his Soul Jam humming happily. …or maybe that was just him.

“So. How long have you known?” He asked softly, voice hushed in the quiet of the moment.

“Hmm?”

Eyes flicking open to peer at the other curiously even as he leaned into Pure Vanilla’s warm, gentle touch, he added, “That I’m the Fount of All-Knowledge.”

Pure Vanilla was smiling at him, thumb tracing over the curve of his cheek, before the healer focused back on the cracked dough of his face. “Ah. That. Well… it was something I learned before I even came here.”

It felt, just slightly, like the very ground under his feet was tilting ninety degrees. “Oh.” Bewildered, he asked, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Pure Vanilla’s answering smile was a little sad. “I know what it is like to be sought out for the power of one’s Soul Jam, or magic, or what services one can provide.” With a soft sigh, Pure Vanilla continued, “And I’m usually happy to help, but…it was…nice. To be on equal footing with you.”

A touch more pointed magic, followed by hands holding him, gentle but firm, as he attempted to recoil, a pained whine on his lips. Then, the magic flowing through him was strangely warm and soothing, like a balm. Ah. It must be an aspect of his healing magic. “Why did you want to hide it from me?” Pure Vanilla asked him as he settled, and he focused on the (admittedly silly) question to distract himself from the residual discomfort as the healer continued to work on the cracks in his dough.

An unimpressed expression was difficult, but not impossible. “…you heard what those cookies in the city said of me. Is it really so surprising I’d want to…hide that from you, as long as possible?”

Hands stilled briefly on his face, before Pure Vanilla said, in a mild, gentle tone, “You feared I’d agree with them?”

Eyes drifting to the side, shame and exhaustion curdling inside him, he admitted, voice soft, “They’re…not exactly…wrong. I’m…this is…I’m corrupted, Nilly. I Know what I’ve become. …sometimes I fear one wrong misstep will send me hurtling off this tightrope I’m walking. …and there’s only an abyss below.”

Hands clamped onto his cheeks painfully, and he realized with shock that Pure Vanilla was shaking.

“Why. Why does it have to be like that, though? You’re…you’re Knowledge, Blueberry Milk Cookie. Truth and Deceit both exist within you. So you - you’ve changed. You’re not as innocent as you might have been. You’ve had your eyes opened to Deceit, to lies, to pain and suffering. …as long as you have hope, as long as you don’t give in to despair, isn’t that enough?”

There was something… frenetic about the way Pure Vanilla was speaking to him. As if the other cookie were speaking both too him, and yet…beyond him. It had him shifting uncomfortably – made his mind flash back to the times Pure Vanilla had looked at him and seen that wretched other cookie – Shadow Milk Cookie – instead of him. But then Pure Vanilla continued, soft and earnest, “You’re just a cookie, Blueberry Milk. You don't need to be just a God; just a slave. Just be a cookie. The cookie you are. Because you’re…you’re a cookie I happen to like very much. Even if you’re angry and sad and broken and lonely, you are also kind and gentle, and that’s enough. You have always been enough.”

Pure Vanilla slumped forward, head coming to rest between his neck and shoulder. “…Please understand.” He whispered, almost too soft to hear.

And all Blueberry Milk could do was hold the cookie in front of him, claws working soothingly through Pure Vanilla’s hair.

***

“What did you do?” He murmured, poking at his cheek in bewildered fascination, head turning to better examine himself in the mirror. Pure Vanilla hummed, draped over him like a particularly large blanket. But at least this time he seemed more focused on the present, if only because an extra face and then the vanilla beholder both peered into the mirror with him.

It was…nice. Or well, he didn’t look nice, per se, not with his eye weirdly reflected by his monocle and half his face disfigured by blue lines – a crow’s foot imprinted upon his form. But he was…whole? Icing had crept over the former cracks in his dough in a way that spoke of healing. When he pressed his claw against the raised lines, he could feel the faint warmth of a healing spell of White Magic …in harmony with…Dark Moon Magic?!

Mouth opening and closing uselessly, more eyes than he knew what to do with stared at Pure Vanilla with sharp intensity, as if he might tug answers out of the other cookie’s brain through sight alone.

Pure Vanilla had the gall to chuckle, cloudy eyes warm but the eye of his beholder staring down at the scarred face in the mirror with a frightful intensity of its own.

“Dark Moon Magic hasn’t been forgotten, you know. …and while not everyone might look on it kindly…I don’t think it evil. A curse. Just…something that should be treated with the respect it deserves.” Pure Vanilla’s smile was soft and gentle as he murmured, “So, if this scar of yours is proof of your corruption, the expression of your deceit, then…would healing not come when deceit – darkness – was made to live side by side with the light?”

It was…a stroke of genius. There was no denying that. In fact, he felt rather foolish for not considering it himself – he, the living embodiment of ‘Truth and Deceit’ under the more formal moniker of ‘Knowledge.’ He was also a mage of the highest order. His magical insights – frankly, all of his insights – were without parallel. And yet. He’d fallen into the same trap as many of the other scholars or mages or even just…cookies he had known. Had forgotten that different was not always bad, dark not always evil…and that two completely different, opposing forces could still exist in harmony with one another.

He sighed softly, eyes drifting shut, before tipping over to lean against Pure Vanilla as much as the other cookie was resting against him. “When did you get so wise?”

Pure Vanilla chuckled softly, threading their fingers together. “I think that just comes with living, Bluebell.”

Something warm blossomed inside him at the endearment. His claws trace over large, work-worn hands but he shook his head slightly. “Many a cookie can go through their whole life, gaining knowledge without wisdom.” He fell silent a moment, something self-deprecating in his smile. Nevertheless, he continued, “I think that’s part of what makes you so good, you know.” With a soft, crooked twist of his lips, he added, “Your wisdom keeps you kind, and your kindness is what will save the rest of us.”

A moment of quiet, before Pure Vanilla raised a clawed hand to his lips, brushing his lips over the back in a soft kiss. Gasping softly, Blueberry Milk stared at the other with wide, startled eyes. Pure Vanilla’s expression was soft and kind, and there was a moment when he could almost feel the gentle undercurrent of affection held within that smile. “You are kinder than you think, and wiser than you know. And…if you ever forget that, I’ll help you remember, Bluebell.”

Blueberry Milk’s answering smile was wobbly, but bright nonetheless. “...I’ll hold you to it.”

***

“You know, you know quite a lot about me, but I don’t know much about you.”

Raising an eyebrow at the cookie sprawled out on the majority of the recliner, Pure Vanilla paused in turning the page of his most recent newspaper in silent question, staring at the other with a dry expression. He understood the Fount was…not all that happy about his insistence on learning more of the current geopolitical climate (and frankly, there was a large part of himself that was mourning the loss of his brief reprieve from rulership), but this was proving to be a short attention span even by Shadow Milk standards.

Watching the other cookie’s tail sway back and forth in that way that meant he was trying to contain his own eagerness and not prove too overwhelming, Pure Vanilla set the papers aside and poked Blueberry Milk’s nose gently, and then had to hide his smile as the scholar’s nose crinkled adorably, monocle shifting with the action.

“What do you want to know?”

An eager, fanged grin splashed across Blueberry Milk’s face and he shifted, almost wiggling, to get a better view of Pure Vanilla. “Tell me something about yourself! Where you’re from – an important memory – a favorite memory – a life changing one – anything!”

Playing with the other cookie’s silvery bangs gently, Pure Vanilla thought a moment, before saying, “I was a shepherd, you know. Before…everything.”

Blueberry Milk’s expression was open, curious. Fascinated. “A shepherd? As in – for cream sheep?”

A wry smile crossed Pure Vanilla’s face as he replied. “Yes. A shepherd for cream sheep. I had to care for all the sheep, keep them safe from storms and predators and cookie-made violence. …Sometimes, the rams would get into fights – with each other, with me – headbutt each other…so I’d headbutt them back!”

An amused, pleased snort. “Is that why you knocked your head into mine, back then? When I first showed you my eye?”

Tapping the other cookie’s marked brow with a teasing smile, Pure Vanilla added, “The best way to stop one of the males from doing something stupid was to knock it straight out of their brain!”

Snickering a little at the Fount’s affronted expression, Pure Vanilla brushed over the nicely healing icing scarring over Blueberry Milk’s cyan eye. “Sometimes, I’d have to help them get bits of fluff out of their eyes. Dandelions? That sort of thing. …but they always cuddled me afterwards.”

Nuzzling into the hand against his face, Blueberry Milk said, a touch dryly, “I feel like you might be hinting at something…but I can’t say that I don’t understand where they’re coming from.”

Pure Vanilla laughed, but it was a distant thing. His fingers traced gently over the shape of the crow’s foot etched into the other cookie’s face, before he asked hesitantly, vanilla beholder shifting ever so slightly to better look at Blueberry Milk, “Do wolfherds exist?"

Blueberry Milk just looked confused. “Wolfherds? Like a shepherd but for cream wolves? I…no?” His face twisted in thought, eyes flashing with a faint light that had Pure Vanilla watching the other cookie with quiet intensity even as he waited with a strange sort of sorrow for the rest of the Fount’s answer.

Looking back up at him, Blueberry Milk continued, “Although…I suppose it depends on one’s definition? Of the function and role of a shepherd. The Wild Spices of the Spicelands often travel and live with their animal companions, and if spice tigers and cookies can coexist, then why not cookies and cream wolves? Or, to take that thought even further – cream wolves are certainly wild creatures and should be approached with caution – but what of cake hounds? Did they not once share a common lineage? Even today, sometimes one will find a cookie with a cake hound that is a little less ‘hound’ and a little more ‘wolf.’ …would that not make that cookie a ‘wolfherd?’ One who cares for and protects and works with a ‘wolf?’”

It was strange, how those simple words caused something in him to unwind. Smile a little tremulous, Pure Vanilla couldn’t help himself. He leaned down and pressed his lips to Blueberry Milk’s marked eye.

“Nilla?” The other asked, sounding a little breathless.

Pure Vanilla just shook his head, throat tight. He hadn’t realized before – thought it just another way at causing unease, twisting a common fable on its head – but – for this cookie who thought so deeply – (who had once asked him, so pointedly, ‘What is a Lie? And what do you think is the Truth?’) “You really love teaching, don’t you?”

“I…huh?” Blueberry Milk said, clearly thrown by the non-sequitur. The scholar’s cheeks had turned a fetching blue, and Pure Vanilla smiled down at the other helplessly.

“I only mean…I love listening to you explain things, you know? You think so deeply – your mind open to simply…wandering the possibilities?”

Blueberry Milk looked…almost shy, his tail curling and uncurling even as he avoided Pure Vanilla’s eyes. “I…well…I am the cookie of Knowledge, after all. Knowledge is meant to be shared. Nurtured. Knowledge grows with cookies, and…isn’t it at its most beautiful when there are uncharted horizons ahead?”

“Even when there might be no answers? Just more questions and possibilities?” Pure Vanilla asked, leaning in a little closer as his thoughts darted to the Sugar-Free Road, eyes sparkling with something eager. The last time he’d felt like this…it had been with White Lily Cookie, back when the world still felt new and vibrant, in Blueberry Yogurt Academy.

Blueberry Milk laughed softly, catching his hand and twining their fingers together before settling their joined hands over his chest. His eyes were sad. “There’s always an answer, Nilly. It’s usually just…not the one we want. Sometimes the happiness of one cookie is garnered at the expense of another. You can’t save everyone. You can destroy yourself utterly, chasing after some goal, and still fail. Or find the answer more painful than the question.”

Blueberry Milk paused, before looking Pure Vanilla directly in the eyes. “Truth…doesn’t care about the ways it can hurt or help; just as Knowledge can’t change the truth, even as it interprets the Truth based on its own perceptions and wisdom. Deceit cares about feelings and implications – but no cookie likes being deceived.” His lips quirked into a wretched, fanged little grin. “You seem to have stumbled on most difficult question of all, Nilly. ‘Which is better? The cruel Truth? Or a kindly Lie?’”

Pure Vanilla’s expression twisted unhappily. “…but why does that have to be the question? Why can’t Truth just…be? Be the steps we take along the way? Our every hope and dream, each step and stumble and fall and rise, as we climb back onto our feet and forge onward? Are not each of these things an important ‘Truth’ to ourselves?”

Blueberry Milk’s smile was soft and so very, very sad. “Silly Vanilly. What you’re describing is ‘Acceptance.’ There is a real ‘Truth,’ you know. A ‘Truth’ outside our understanding – our perception. It exists with or without our Knowledge or acknowledgement.”

“Even so, I still want to hope that the Truth can be kind.”

“Ah…but what is ‘hope’ built on, Pure Vanilla? A blinding Truth? Or each kindly little Lie?”

“I…it… but the ‘Truth’ brought me to you, didn’t it?”

Blueberry Milk brought the hand in his up to his lips in a gentle kiss. “Did it?” He whispered softly, something sad yet expectant in his expression.

(Which is better? (Which was this – this beautiful dream of theirs?) A cruel Truth? A kindly Lie?)

(And when he knew the truth, could he endure the answer?)

***

Art by EstelleLuna!! (Not me. I can barely draw stick figures!)

https://www.deviantart.com/crimsonmired/art/1193301661

Chapter Text

You are Not Alone (No One is Alone)

Pure Vanilla had become almost…feverish, in his intensity. Not quite haunted but…harried. As if he were beset by a baying hound only he could see. It was…worrisome. He hadn’t understood completely. Not at first. Had, in fact, thought something had taken a turn for the better. The other cookie had never objected to his touch nor his more…Beastly aspects. In fact, he seemed to…accept them, appreciate them, (like them?) even. Best of all, the other cookie had stopped looking through him, in that way he sometimes had, when the talk got a little too somber or morbid. Blueberry Milk could feel it, now more than ever, that he was the one in Pure Vanilla’s eyes. Could feel it, nestled in his chest, sometimes, like a tiny, flickering light.

And yet. The worry remained.

Small things. Throwing himself into the Fount of Knowledge’s work. His duties and rulership. The questions that plagued him, the problems and tasks before him. They had spent much time of late in his study or the library, combing through neither texts of space travel (practical, written by himself), nor time travel (theoretical, ditto), but news reports, letters and messages, death tolls, requests for aid, messages from the various guilds and courts around the continent. Or in books on farming and agriculture; on medicine and epidemiology.

Honestly, he had been relieved in the beginning. Less time spent on studying how Pure Vanilla arrived here was less time spent on determining how Pure Vanilla would leave him.

(He was a fool.)

(Pure Vanilla was trapped. Held hostage by a specter only he could see. He didn’t know how to help.)

Tossing away another request to review a recently invented and partially completed magical array on the long-distance application of fire magics with a frustrated growl, he rubbed at his face with ink-stained fingers, not noticing the smear of black he inked across his lids and nose. When his monocle fell out of its comfortable perch before his left eye, he sighed and let his head fall onto the desk with a too loud thump.

Soft laughter had him glaring halfheartedly at the other cookie sitting among his own little nest of papers and books. The laughter just got louder at the sight of his face through the vanilla beholder. “Need a break?” Pure Vanilla asked, smile replacing his previous thunderous frown.

Grabbing one of the sheaves of paper strewn around his desk and waving them around irritably, he replied, “I can feel my intelligence dropping by the minute. …how many times must I provide clear instructions and a logical explanation on the benefits of crop rotation, a three field system, a method of irrigation, and a way to obtain seeds for the necessary crops involved before they follow my recommendations?! I am the Fount of Knowledge! Not a farmer! I cannot also do the farming for them!”

And that wasn’t even counting the various other academic papers he was being asked to review or provide insights on (although the Academy had ousted him it didn’t mean there weren’t other cookies still trying to use him); the requests for aid from the Flatlands and the closer peaks of the Strong Flour Ridge; the way the petitions were piling up and he’d have to appear in public again to deal with them-

“Alright, alright, that’s enough, Bluebell. …your glare is liable to set that paper on fire.” Then, warm hands reaching for his temples, massaging gently as a trickle of healing magic eased the pain behind his eyes. He nuzzled into the touch unthinkingly, but couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Not when Pure Vanilla continued to massage his scalp so naturally.

He sighed softly in relief as hands moved down the tension in his neck and shoulders, before tipping his head back to look up into that gently smiling face. His own lips quirked without his say-so as he looked at the vanilla beholder beside Pure Vanilla, and then into the dull eyes of the healer. With a playful smile he slid out of his chair and onto the plush carpet, saying dramatically, “Why are we doing this again? There are so many more interesting things we could be doing!”

Pure Vanilla sunk down next to him, knocking their shoulders together playfully, and he had to hide a mischievous smile. Success! He draped himself over the healer bodily while Pure Vanilla said deadpan, “Your job, my Lord Fount.”

Flopping into Pure Vanilla’s lap at that mortal wound, he said, “So cold! Direct Strike!”

Pure Vanilla flicked his forehead in retaliation, but the other cookie was smiling, so it was worth it.

“Have you considered that the need for food is a more immediate problem? One that farming itself won’t solve?” The other asked, rubbing at the spot he’d flicked gently.

He shot Pure Vanilla a look of utter disgust, tail flicking expressively at the very idea, expression nearly shouting: ‘who do you think you’re talking to?’ “They’re not starving,” he said, with the certainty of Knowing. “I’ve stockpiled the granaries, manipulated the markets to ensure there is some form of rationing even if we’re not calling it as much just yet, even taken to ensuring trade agreements by proxy with the ‘Free Folk of the Faerie Wood’ to ensure that there is a steady supply of goods back and forth-“

He sighed softly, cutting himself off. Head tilting to breath in that reassuring Vanilla scent, he murmured, “I can’t do everything for them. I can tell them everything they want to know, answer every question they have…but their lives are theirs to live. …I can’t just magic away everyone’s problems, Nilly.”

His ear flicked at the gentle touch tracing the edges, and he felt his face heating at the soft, compassionate, “I know you can’t, Bluebell. You’ve done so much…you can’t shoulder everything alone.”

He sighed softly, arms coming to wrap around Pure Vanilla’s middle even as he curled around the other cookie. Somehow, it was easier to relax for even just a moment – to let go the simmering frustration, the worry about just what Pure Vanilla was so afraid of – when Pure Vanilla’s hands were in his hair; touched him so tenderly. …like he was something precious.

“Have you considered meeting them where they are?” Pure Vanilla asked him so very gently.

He twisted, turning to look up at the other cookie in silent contemplation, face careful. Warm, kind fingers brushed softly against the scarred over icing on his cheek, the ink over his eyes, the rune on his brow, and he sight softly, a little less frigid.

“What did you have in mind?”

***

“Never mind. You’ve clearly gone mad. This is a terrible idea, and I’m going to blame you when it fails.”

“I think it’s a great idea,” Pure Vanilla said loftily, straightening at his borrowed top and breeches, feeling a touch naked without his Soul Jam. He’d been a little startled when the other had come to him with a small selection of altered clothes; hadn’t realized that the other’s handiness with a needle and thread had started so early.

“They are going to take one look at me and chase us both off like wolves in the night,” Blueberry Milk grumbled, the words just shy of irritable. Pure Vanilla watched as the scholar tugged the hood of his cloak down a little more. The other was also in much simpler clothes – again little more than a loose tunic and hose, staff and Soul Jam nowhere to be seen. In fact, it was a style much closer to Shadow Milk’s and it left Pure Vanilla feeling simultaneously wrong footed and strangely nostalgic. But then again, Blueberry Milk was just a cookie…and these were normal (probably?) clothes for what was…millennia in the past. Honestly, he was more amused by how dated Shadow Milk’s own fashion sense apparently still was.

Reaching for the other’s hand with a fond sigh, Pure Vanilla squeezed the hand in his, saying lightly, “Don’t worry, everything will be fine.”

“You say that,” It was Blueberry Milk’s tone, tinted with a quiet rumble of unhappiness, that had Pure Vanilla slowing them to a stop, looking down at the other with a fond gaze.

He pushed the other’s hood back with gentle hands, before tucking a lock of silver hair behind one ear. Thumb brushing Blueberry Milk’s cheek, he cradled it kindly and murmured, “Forgive me. You don’t have to do this if it leaves you so uncomfortable.” With a small frown and a troubled expression, he continued. “I…I know I’m being…selfish. I just…I don’t want to lose…this. I truly don’t think they’ll recognize you. Not with any certainty. Not without your full Fount regalia. And I absolutely do not think they’ll be afraid of you.”

He paused, reaching for the other’s hands and then added, a hint of embarrassment coloring his tone, “I just…It’s just…this is not to say that Blueberry Cobbler isn’t a perfectly fine cookie but…the one I want to see is Blueberry Milk Cookie. The one who’s name I want to call is Blueberry Milk Cookie’s.” Pure Vanilla stared down at the claws in his hands, the blackened tips of each digit he could now see so clearly, so long as Blueberry Milk didn’t hide them away. Sighing softly, he confessed, “You make me want to be selfish.”

A sigh, before the other squeezed Pure Vanilla’s hands softly. “…I just can’t win against you, can I.”

Pure Vanilla laughed a little sadly to himself. “…I wouldn’t be so sure of that, actually. Sometimes it feels like I’m the one chasing after you.”

Cyan and cobalt eyes looked up at him for a moment, unreadable, before the other sighed quietly, humor in his voice but something sober in his eyes. “I guess we’ll just keep chasing each other, then.”

His calm smile wobbled, for just a moment, before he pulled the other closer, nuzzling into blue and silver strands, taking a fortifying breath of winter crispness and blueberries. “We’ll just…take a look around, for today, alright? See if we can figure out what problems there might be in this Village. See how it might translate upwards. If we can help you see and understand their problems, cookie-to-cookie, they can see and understand you, too.”

Blueberry Milk flashed a fanged grin at him. “I know. It was my plan, after all.”

I cannot let him endure this alone.

***

Cremefeld was bustling, in much the same way that Heidelbeere had been. Cookies going about their day, opening stalls and stores, heading to the fields; a pair stood in a small huddle by the milk well.  And yet, there was a quiet uncertainty to the atmosphere around them, only accentuated by the damp mists and massive, ancient trees. 

Pure Vanilla looked around curiously. There was something…startlingly visceral…about being in a place like this. This wasn’t the Spire – familiar but not – a timeless place regardless of whether he was with Blueberry Milk or Shadow Milk. Being with the other cookie felt natural, even as they continued to grow and challenge and learn from each other.

Stepping out of one of the side streets towards the central plaza, Pure Vanilla was yanked back unexpectedly. Turning in confusion, he made out Blueberry Milk standing utterly still, half hidden in shadow. There was something wide and fearful in his gaze.

Gaze softening, Pure Vanilla returned to Blueberry Milk’s side, tucking them both against the wooden slats of a building.

“I know it’s scary,” he started gently.

And perhaps the true tell was that Blueberry Milk couldn’t even bring himself to object. To defend himself.

Pure Vanilla tucked Blueberry Milk’s hand into his arm, stood close, so that their shoulders brushed. “…I don’t want you to be alone. You don’t have to be alone. …I’m sure that if the others could only see you as I do – you’d be-“ Pure Vanilla fell silent.

A quiet, halting voice. “But I’m not alone. You’re here with me, Pure Vanilla.” Pure Vanilla swallowed roughly.

“Yes. Yes I am. But- even so. Even so. Please, Blueberry Milk Cookie. Try. Please just…try.”

Those eyes – haunted and just a little too Knowing. A gentle claw, tucking a strand of spun sunlight behind his ear. Something warm and sad and not his, settling beneath his rib-cage.

“As you wish.”

Chapter Text

Father, if --- Exists (Then How Come He Never Lives Here?)

Taking a deep, fortifying breath, hands clasped tightly behind his back, Blueberry Milk forced himself to step into the light. There was a part of him that suspected his anxieties were foolish. It was a rare cookie indeed who would see the calm and reserved Fount of Knowledge, distant as a star and untouchable as moonlight in him – small, imperfect creature that he was.

And yet, the fear remained. Was made worse, in its own way, because he had tasted the impossible, and met a cookie who saw beyond the mask and didn’t seem to mind. Somehow, bewilderingly, wanted the cookie he was, and not the cookie he was forced to be.

These cookies were different. He was beholden to them. And they had expectations that he could never truly conform to. And if they knew the truth? He could only hope that it was not as damaging as he feared it would be.

But, for Pure Vanilla, he would endure. Would reach out his hand to these cookies, and hope. His mind flashed to the sprig of bluebell left in the Spire, enchanted for preservation. Bafflingly, he wanted to…try. (Wanted to be a cookie Pure Vanilla would be happy to have at his side.) 

So, he swallowed his anxiety, pasted as pleasant a smile on his face as he could, and strode over to the pair of cookies by the milk well.

“Is everything quite alright, gentlecookies? We were hoping to quench our thirst with milk before we continued on our travels. …we have coin or could trade for the use, if you prefer?”

Pure Vanilla came up behind him, staff tapping along with each step, and settled next to him in quiet support.

“Travelers?” Asked the cookie with closely shorn dark purple hair, watching with some confusion.

“Aye, bit unusual ta run into travelers ‘round these parts. What brings ya’ ‘ere?” asked the other cookie, stuffing a small paper into his simple breeches (cotton-candy-wool, perhaps?) before crossing his arms across his chest and staring appraisingly at the both of them.

He could hear Pure Vanilla shifting behind him, but this was not outside his expectations. Lightly, tone careful in a way that spoke of significance, he replied, “We’ve been headed west. …our thoughts had us considering beyond the First Silver River.”

“Oh, I see,” Said the second cookie, gaze darting to the freshly healed icing over his eye, an understanding grunt escaping him. Blueberry Milk hummed, eyes darting away from that sympathetic, ‘knowing’ expression. It left a sour taste on his tongue and a nameless frustration bubbling in his gut. How pathetic was it? That he could lie, by letting everyone else lie for him? That truth, spoken to conform to bias, was proving far more useful than any falsehood.

The purple-haired cookie slapped his companion on the back, hard.  “You’ll have to forgive ol’ Gooseberry, here. He’s a bit of a lump, but he means well. And I’m Blackcurrant Cookie! Good to meet you both!”

“You as well,” Pure Vanilla said, stepping closer to both join the conversation and pressing his shoulder subtly into his own. “My name is Pure Vanilla Cookie. This is Blueberry Milk Cookie.”

He held his breath subconsciously, waiting. But there was no jerk of recognition, no confusion, nothing. Just two friendly faces.

(But then again, why would anyone expect the Fount of Knowledge to have a name?)

The pair of cookies moved from the well, but they both looked a little troubled. “You are welcome to the milk, but…we fear a foul humor. …all of the cream sheep and many of the cotton candy sheep we’ve fed have become lethargic and are…discoloring? Their wool turning from white to a more…blue-grey. And,” here Blackcurrant’s gaze turned to his own, “those cookies with milk as a primary ingredient seem to suffer similar effects.”

“How…how long has this been going on?” he asked, voice faint. It had been easy, to retreat into his Spire. His friends were going mad, he was falling apart; desperately searching for a solution to a problem without an answer. (There hadn’t been a solution. Not until now.) Pure Vanilla had spoken of fallow, overgrown fields. Was this why? What else have I missed? He could feel his tail coiling with anxiety, under the veneer of a (relatively) normal cookie, but then Pure Vanilla was stepping even closer still, hand smoothing over his back gently in a calming gesture, before the other cookie stepped forward, peering down into the well with his beholder.

“May we take a small sample? And then look over the cream and cotton-candy sheep?” The healer asked, voice calm but intent. “I am a healer by trade, and before that was a simple shepherd. And Blueberry Milk here is a genius among geniuses. …it may have been happenstance, but we are…some of the cookies best poised to help.”

Blackcurrent and Gooseberry looked at each other, a little shocked. There was something cautiously hopeful in Blackcurrent’s expression, while Gooseberry just looked bewildered, eyes narrowed. The former turned to his friend in some excitement, but was cut off when the latter said, slowly, “Tha’ sounds…nice an’ all, but, ah, you do realize where we are, right? …you must have seen th’ Tower on your way here-“

“But Goose! If we finally have some cookies who might help-“

“But why.” Gooseberry asked, suspicion clouding his eyes once again. “What’s innit for you? I mean, you’ve clearly had your run in with a god before, if yer headed to the Faeriewood…”

And the worst part was – he didn’t know how to answer. Because it was his duty? Because he had missed the signs? Because he was the one available who could? Because it was the ‘right’ expected thing to do? Because he-

Pure Vanilla stepped close. Too close, for a conversation in such a public space. And yet, somehow, it was exactly what he needed. He relaxed into the healer’s chest, and his invisible tail curled around the other’s leg just the same.

“Because it is something I wish to do.” Pure Vanilla said.

…could it really be that easy?

***

Receiving help was, apparently, not a decision to be made lightly.

Settling comfortably against the side of the well to wait, he turned towards Blueberry Milk with a soft, “Are you okay, Bluebell?”

Blueberry Milk shot him a dry look, and Pure Vanilla laughed a little sheepishly. He supposed the answer to that was obvious, what with the way the other’s tail, invisible as it was, was still looped around his leg gently. Reaching for the scholar’s hand, he brushed his fingertips over claws he could feel but not see. What a strange trick this is.

“How did you know?” Blueberry Milk asked abruptly, fluffy tip of his tail tapping once, gently, against his dough. “…back there, I mean. When I was- When you…” ‘got close enough to touch,’ Pure Vanilla finished internally.

His hand came to rub at his chest subconsciously, where his soul jam would have been on his robes, before he lowered his hand uneasily. How to explain the feelings of dizziness and nausea, as if he were spinning round and round, without sounding more than a little mad, because he was fairly certain those feelings weren’t his.

Instead of answering, Pure Vanilla threaded their fingers together, cool claws pressing into his hand, and asked, “Why didn’t you shapeshift your claws and tail away?”

Blueberry Milk sighed softly, a little helplessly, before his eyes drifted shut and his head fell onto Pure Vanilla’s shoulder. “Because…you said you wanted to be with… me.”

Pure Vanilla sighed himself, the sound just as helpless, just as worn. His head thunked lightly onto the smaller cookie’s as he answered at last, “Because I know you, Blueberry Milk Cookie.”

A soft, gentle snicker, and it felt like his heart was too full. “Hmm, I suppose you do.”

“You know,” Blueberry Milk continued, “We don’t have to get their permission. Getting a sample of the well milk would be laughably easy.”

Pure Vanilla snorted, shaking his head fondly, before flicking his companion’s nose playfully. “Entering your rebellious phase, are you?”

There was a soft spluttering followed by a slightly indignant, “Absolutely not. Efficient. What does it matter, how the problem is solved, so long as it is indeed resolved?”

Pure Vanilla shifted, pulling away just enough to regard Blueberry Milk through both vanilla beholder and his own dull eyes. “It does matter, though. I… want them to understand you, Bluebell. How can anyone do that, when you’re so quick to hide your kindness?”

Blueberry Milk’s eyes widened, and it might have been comical, if the other cookie didn’t look so… awed. There was something terribly sad about this, from that expression on the Fount’s face, to the slow, hesitant wag of his companion’s tail, still loosely coiled around his leg. (Pure Vanilla had a moment of mental stillness, before he was struck with two thoughts simultaneously. The Fount of Knowledge was actually rather pretty. And his tail was very, very soft. What if I-)

Fortunately, he was saved from his sudden bout of madness by the return of Blackcurrant and Gooseberry Cookie accompanied by a small crowd of other cookies, Spear-headed by an elderly cookie with silvery, sugar-dusted hair. She was hunched over with age and supported by a cane and had brittle, gossamer wings – one was folded wrongly – but her eyes were sharp and clear.

It was instinct that had him scrambling to his feet, pulling Blueberry Milk up with him, feeling suddenly like he was back at Blueberry Yogurt Academy and had been caught doing something he shouldn’t. The feeling persisted when the elderly cookie’s eyes just studied them both, silent and judging.

“You want to help us with our milk problem?” She asked with a precise, controlled voice that belied her apparent frailty. Her eyes passed between them before she settled on Blueberry Milk with a passive gaze. There had been a note of challenge in the other cookie’s tone. As if she found them both wanting, perhaps. Or maybe as if she couldn’t fathom the thought – that they might help or that they were capable of doing so – he couldn’t say.

For a moment, Pure Vanilla worried he’d have to step in. Blueberry Milk had stiffened, gone still, but then he bowed.

“Yes.” He said, simply.

The elderly faerie’s gaze lingered a moment more, before, “Well, hop to it, then!” She turned to the other cookies gathered around her irritably. “What are you waiting for? Spare no effort, give them what they need.”

“Y-yes madam!” Came the sharp report of the small herd of cookies that followed her, before they scattered.

Turning away, the elderly Faerie cookie paused before throwing back over her shoulder, “Boy. Don’t disappoint me.”

***

“That was too easy.” Blueberry Milk said, already crouching over the lip the milk well, monocle perched on his cheek, magic beginning to unfurl in an array Pure Vanilla wasn’t familiar with.

“I think she likes you,” A tiny voice popped up, before a small body launched itself directly at Blueberry Milk’s unprotected back.

There was a startled yelp, a giggling cheer, the scrabble of claws on stone as Blueberry Milk nearly pitched into the well, before his magic caught them both.

“And what do we have here?” the scholar asked flatly of the little cookie caught in his magic and suspended in the air before them.

Pure Vanilla blinked, walking closer. It was a young faerie cookie, little more than a child; predominantly the muted colors so typical of faerie cookies.  Dark hair curling wildly about his face, his wings fluttered rapidly as he waved eagerly, saying “Hi! I’m Black Hyacinth Cookie! Are you really gonna fix the milk?”

“That’s the plan,” Pure Vanilla said calmly, as Blueberry Milk set the young cookie down onto the ground beside them.

“But how?” Black Hyacinth said, worming between them before climbing up Pure Vanilla like a particularly tall post to peer eagerly into the well, once again. “The last time someone checked out the milk, they said it was better to just ‘move from this accursed place.’”

Pure Vanilla blinked, bewildered at the apparent …venom. “What? Why?”

Blueberry Milk looked like he’d been forced to eat something sour. “Don’t be ridiculous. Cursed? What sort of nonsense is that. Do you really think I’d not have put paid to a curse?”

The boy giggled, and proceeded to launch himself off Pure Vanilla before clamping onto Blueberry Milk’s back once more. (There was a brief moment when the little faerie’s head tilted, and he squinted down Blueberry Milk’s back in confusion, before shrugging). “That’s what Grammy said!”

Pillowing his pointy chin directly in the most fragile portion of dough where Blueberry Milk’s neck met his shoulder, Black Hyacinth added with a cheeky little smile, “Actually she said a loooooot more than that!” With a giggle, he wiggled and straightened up on Blueberry Milk’s back, and then attempted to mimic what was clearly the elderly faerie cookie’s voice, “’We will not be going anywhere, and if you cannot be bothered to descend from your ivory towers to see the world as it is, you foolish whelps whose milk had curdled before even reaching maturity, you cowardly creti-‘“

The boy was cut off abruptly as long-fingered, feminine hands clamped around his mouth and he was pulled back by an embarrassed new cookie with pretty silvery hair who hissed, “what are you saying?!”

Unfortunately, Black Hyacinth had by no means released Blueberry Milk, had in fact clutched tighter around the other cookie’s neck, so perhaps it was inevitable that all three cookies went down in a tangle of limbs.

There was a single moment of complete silence even as the Fount’s stunned face stared up at the brilliant blue sky. He had at least twisted himself in the fall enough to ensure he didn’t crush the young cookie.

Then, a black fluff of hair peaked out from behind Blueberry Milk’s side. “Oops!” Black Hyacinth said, completely unrepentant.

One more moment of silence before – Pure Vanilla let out a snort. Then he was sinking down next to Blueberry Milk, gasping, while the Fount of Knowledge absolutely lost it, cackling like a maniac as his invisible tail thumped loudly on the ground.

Chapter Text

Teach Your Children Well

It felt a little like a dream. Or perhaps a memory. Little faces, turned towards him with bated breath. Older faces, eager and sharp and clever – questioning, debating, wondering, exploring, failing and then coming back better-

He swallowed roughly.

(That had been…before. When other cookies had sought Knowledge with him, rather than from him. Before he’d been reduced to little more than a receptacle of answers. And then even that hadn’t mattered. Not when he’d been drowning in loneliness and desperation and despair and had finally succumbed to the deceit that had submerged him.)

But it wasn’t all the same. He’d never had a child hang off him, before.

Black Hyacinth had also started to keep up a running commentary, which was more than a little amusing.

The silver haired cookie who had caused them all to collapse had introduced herself as Edelweiss Cookie, not a faerie given her lack of wings, but clearly someone well known to this particular faerie. She, Blackcurrant Cookie and Gooseberry Cookie had all taken it upon themselves to help him and Pure Vanilla with their research into the befouled milk.

“-Blue Mr Magic Cookie has obtained some of the icky milk. And what will he do with this gross…thing…?”

“…substance. Fluid, horror, travesty-“ Edelweiss said tiredly.

There was a giggle right next to his ear, followed by, “ahem. Thank you for the audience participation. ‘And what will he do with this gross substance. Fluid, horror, travesty’ – oh! In an astonishing twist, Blue Mr. Magic Cookie gives it to Yellow Mr. Magic Cookie!”

“…’ow do ya’ ever get anythin’ done?” Gooseberry asked Edelweiss, sounding more than a little admiring.

“With difficulty,” was the long-suffering, affectionate sigh.

Squeezing in next to them Blackcurrant held out a carton of candied nuts. He was watching where Pure Vanilla was sitting with the rest of them like he was observing a particularly riveting sporting event. Sighing as Black Hyacinth half crawled up his body again to get at the candied snack, Blueberry Milk wrapped the little cookie in his magic and set the boy down in front of him…and then finally just gave in and protectively cradled the lad when the faerie cookie climbed into his lap with a giggle.

“’m sorry,” Edelweiss commented with a tiny, amused smile on her face. “It’s a bit of a lost cause when he likes you.”

Blackcurrant nudged him again, and pointed to where Pure Vanilla himself was carefully constructing a detection array to magically examine the milk from the well. “What’s he doing,” he asked conversationally.

He twisted to eye Blackcurrant Cookie. It had…sounded like an honest question. Blackcurrant wasn’t even looking at him. His eyes were riveted on the glowing white-gold magic in Pure Vanilla’s hands.

They were shining.

His voice barely held a tremor when he started to explain.

“Pure Vanilla is creating what we call an array. There are two things one must consider, when creating or using a magical working. The first is the source, and the second is intent. Pure Vanilla, here, is using White Magic. White Magic draws from the Lightbringers; things such as the full moon or the sun. Just so you know, these are, at the end of the day, arbitrary classifications created by academics to help codify our own understanding of magical energies. You might consider a discussion of ‘source’ as a shorthand for ‘expected outcome and cost.’ White Magic, for example, encapsulates both Healing Magic and Light Magic, among others, in part because of the nature of the source in question, and using the appropriate source decreased the magical ‘cost.’

“Intent, on the other hand, is something consistent across all schools of magic. Whether one uses an array – as Pure Vanilla is doing here – or an incantation or even a simple spell, intent defines outcome. All three are, in fact, based on the intrinsic properties inherent in runes; for example, ‘a spell,’ might be better considered as a shorthand, standardized, automatized array that has been streamlined for ease of use. The array Pure Vanilla’s crafting here is a fairly straightforward one, meant for healing, meaning that its intent is to determine not only common ailments such as degree of sogginess or extent of crumbling, but also more complex things, such as the nature of a potential pathogen or other infectious sources – like spores – Life Powder consumption or degradation; hmm, Nilly, would you mind expanding the working, it would be easier to expla-”

It was in the silence that followed that he realized a few things in quick succession.

First, and perhaps most importantly, everyone was staring at him. Even Pure Vanilla. He knew those looks. Stupid – Stupid, Blue! Nobody cares about magical theory! They just wanted to know it’s safe. A simple explanation. Concise – they don’t care what Nilly’s doing, they care that he’s not going to accidentally ‘blow them up’ with magic they don’t understand, and now you’ve forced them to sit and listen to your useless chatter- …you’ve gotten complacent, Blueberry Milk. Just because Pure Vanilla tolerates your…quirks…doesn’t mean anyone else-

Warm hands, sliding around his shoulders. A large hand, carding through his bangs, brushing Algiz on his brow. A soft, steady voice, murmuring soothingly, “Calm down, Bluebell. It’s quite alright.” (Something warm and affectionate that made him think Pure Vanilla was tucked into place like a candle-flame in the hollow of his heart). Then, “I don’t think they minded, Bluebell. …open your eyes.”

And when he did- Oh. He knew those looks. Shock, of course, but also…wonder. “Is…is that what it’s like? In one of those highfalutin magic schools,” Blackcurrant was mumbling, still looking stunned. “Can we join? How can we join.”

“Ya’ know ya’ need magic fer tha’,” Gooseberry said dully, looking almost…miffed?

“…but do you really?” Asked Edelweiss, before turning to him with shining eyes and a raised hand. “Mr Blueberry Milk, sir, you know way more than those pompous bast- aaaah- people at the Institutes or Academy, right? Is there any way we – um, that is, can cookies like us-“

“WAIT! So, what kind of magic is it that’s hidin’ the long furry thing next to you?? Something super special and awesome? Or, wait, how do you manage to have normal hands and sharp hands at the same? Huh?” Black Hyacinth was vibrating with excitement.

…Earthbread was spinning, under him. “Uuuh…”

Deep, rich laughter next to his ear, and then warmth, at his back. Shifting, barely heard for the ringing in his ears, as Pure Vanilla wormed his way in behind him, legs sticking out on either side with absolutely no shame as the other cookie leaned him against his chest and wrapped him in a loose hold. It was too intimate, and everyone was looking at him, and where was Pure Vanilla’s sense of propriety-

“I told you, everyone would want to get to know you, if you only let them,” Pure Vanilla whispered softly into his ear, voice as tender and fond as the warm feeling in his heart.

With an embarrassed flush on his cheeks and a mortified groan, he just…gave up, and let his illusion fall from himself like so much water.

A moment of self-conscious silence, where he tried not to burrow too obviously into Pure Vanilla’s chest.

“And in a shocking twist, dear audience, Blue Mr Magic Cookie reveals himself to be none other than the renowned Blue Mr Magic-Tail Cookie!”

(And somehow, he didn’t mind, even when everyone saw his tail coiling around Pure Vanilla’s leg like it belonged there.)

***

Perhaps it was inevitable, that what had started as a series of experiments on the tainted milk had devolved into an impromptu magic lesson.

…not that any of the cookies involved seemed to mind.

Pure Vanilla simply held onto Blueberry Milk quietly, as the other expanded a detection array so elegant it was more akin to art. It was humbling. He’d known the logistics of runic arrays. Like every half-competent mage or wizard, he was capable of naming each rune and knew the associated sound. He even had a basic understanding of their meanings. But he was realizing now, as he watched Blueberry Milk calmly take the children and all the interested cookies huddled around them through the detection array, that he didn’t Know anything at all.

Tapping one half blackened claw against the array, expanding it further so that a rune came clearly into view, Blueberry Milk said, “For example, this is ‘Thurisaz’ – ‘the thorn.’ A simplistic understanding of this rune might be ‘reaction.’ But in reality, it’s more of a reaction in the sense of a disruptive or transformative force. Like a hammer – it can either break something apart or make something anew. Here, in this array – as this is a detection array – it serves as a disruptive force, breaking down the ‘nature’ of the milk into its constituent parts so that the rest of the array, hmm, here, this-“ with a few flicks of his fingers he revealed a new symbol, much more complex than the first.

“This is actually a combination of four separate runes, balanced together – Dagaz, Kenaz, Mannaz and Ansuz – that take those constituent parts and essentially illuminate and provide understanding of the purpose of those parts and then communicate them back to the caster of the array.”

With a tiny smile the scholar flipped the array one more time, pulling up another rune. “And of course, Sowilo. The Sun. To both draw forth the magic itself and complete the working.”

(And when had he ever seen Blueberry Milk this effortlessly, effervescently happy? He hadn’t understood, not really, what it meant. For Blueberry Milk Cookie to be the ‘Fount of All-Knowledge.’ …he was the source. The origin. That from which knowledge and wisdom freely flowed. And more quietly still, another, more muted realization. What sort of mutilation of the soul did Blueberry Milk endure, that Shadow Milk – a Fount dry and cracked – was all that remained?)

(A chill shot through Pure Vanilla’s dough, and his arms tightened minutely around the cookie before him.)

A clear, commanding voice cut through the lesson like a lightning strike.

“And what of this rune?” A tap of a sugar-tipped cane – Pure Vanilla’s breath caught in his throat.

Ah. So that’s why the mark on his brow seemed so familiar.

Blueberry Milk was silent for longer than he should have been, shoulders tense and tail still. He stared down at the rune in question. Couldn’t even bring himself to attempt politeness and look at the elderly faerie cookie who’d spoken to him.

Slowly, his claws brought the rune into focus, even as he didn’t expand it the way he’d done before. His voice was hoarse.

“Algiz. This is… Algiz. It’s…often thought to represent protection or…sanctuary. But…it is truly…the…protection of the divine. Because, fundamentally, Algiz is…the connection to a higher power…Knowledge…the bridge between the World and the Divine.”

Oh. No wonder he bears that rune on his forehead. …on his face. Even Shadow Milk still…

Swallowing, Pure Vanilla tucked Blueberry Milk against his chest, pillowed his chin in soft strands…and conveniently hiding both the marking on Blueberry Milk’s brow a little better while cutting at the tension that strung them all taught.

“Well, Bluebell, why don’t you show them what a completed array does, now that you’ve explained it? …I…the only thing amiss that I noted was that there was something in that milk – an infection or other substance, perhaps? That seemed to have a predilection for Life Powder. Or perhaps an affinity for magic, I suppose, as those are actually rather interconnected fundamentally…”

Nodding, Blueberry Milk tilted his head and peered down curiously at the pail of milk between them all. He waved his hand and the array he’d expanded for them condensed back down, until it was just a simple, nondescript little array with little evidence of its inner workings. Then, the array began to glow softly, a deep midnight blue so dark it seemed almost black, shot through with cobalt and tiny pinpricks of light like stars, as it began to examine the milk from the well.

“What.” Blueberry Milk said, and then he was struggling to stand, pulling away from Pure Vanilla and the little crowd of onlookers who soon also started to scrabble upwards, concerned. And then – the true magic began.

Blueberry Milk’s magic – rings of condensed arrays that swirled and spun around the milk in its pail, a sudden cyan spell of white magic added, gold light magic, another ring of midnight blue growing, spinning outwards, towards the well, the ground, the tree line, beyond, (the greatest mage who ever lived), until it ceased, with a sudden clench of his fist.

It was with a quiet shock that he murmured, “This is…some form of poison? Definitely one with a preferential affinity for magic that generates True Damage, and yet not one I am familiar with. And…” His voice trailed off. With an intent stare at the earth beneath them, he murmured, “It seems to have sunk into the very land itself.”

Chapter Text

And We All Have So Many Faces (The Real Self Often Erases)

Perhaps it was inevitable, the sudden roar of questions.

He didn’t quite flinch backwards, but something deep within him recoiled. (It was a reaction he’d thought long since discarded. Cookies had never cared for his discomfort and anxieties. Not even in the beginning, when they’d looked at him with open wonder. Certainly not now, when they closed their ears to his words, looked upon him with such suspicion. He knew better than to give them another weapon to hold over his head).

“Enough.” The word wasn’t even spoken that loudly, but the presence and tone of the elderly faerie was enough to still all the chatter.

She turned to look at him, appraising. …there was something – almost knowing – in her eyes-

“Don’t worry, Grammy! Blue Mr Magic-Tail Cookie will help us!” Grunting, he was pulled from his nascent spiral by Black Hyacinth crawling upwards to settle on his back, again. “He’s definitely way better than those 'pompous bast-'“  He could hear the smug smile in the boy’s voice even as Edelweiss lunged forward again to cover the little cookie’s mouth.

Swaying out of the way of Edelweiss’ grasping hands he said, dryly, “Can we not do this again? I can only take so many falls per day.”

But Edelweiss barely even spared him a glance – little more than a cheeky grin. Then, she was reaching forwards to slap Black Hyacinth’s palm with her own in a little cheer, before she added, “You can help us, can’t you? …and we’ll help you too, of course!”

(Faith. Hope. When was the last time he had seen such emotions, directed at him? And more important still-)

“You’ll help me?”

There was something in Blackcurrant’s expression, a wry twist to his smile even as he nodded, (in the faces of the cookies around him) that had a lump wedging itself firmly in his throat.

“If you’ll have us,” Blackcurrant said, before adding sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck, “Not that I’m sure how much we can help…but…it is our home, after all.”

“An’ we won’ leave it.” Gooseberry nodded sagely.

(He felt weak at the knees. As if the world around him were not quite real. These cookies, looking at him and still wanting to help him, wanting to find the answer together, wanting to walk this path with him (even with the Fount?). Pure Vanilla’s hand settled within his as he pressed their shoulders together, support and grounding both. Does this mean…if I really try…can I be seen?)

The others were still debating where to start next. Pure Vanilla voice came, clear and calm, “-cream sheep, right? Perhaps we should start there? I am quite familiar with them, and may be able to get a better understanding of this poison if we examine them-“

“But it’s in the very earth, right? That- that could be bad. …is it in the milk-table itself? Shouldn’t we try and mark off the perimeter of the affected area, first? Then we could at least try and do something about the growing season.” Another cookie who had stopped and then stayed for his impromptu lesson on arrays added.

“No, no, no, that won’t work,” Blackcurrent said, with a thoughtful frown on his face. “Or, well, that would work and be important, but later. We need to figure out where this is coming from, first. If it’s in the ground, then maybe the source is too? Oh, we could follow the underground milk-flow, trace it backwards? That might be possible? And then maybe we can block off the source?”

A scoff followed by a blunt retort, irritated and tired all at once. “I don’ know why we’re even askin’ ‘bout ‘a source.’ Ain’t it obvious? ‘E said it was affectin’ Life Powder – an ‘e said it was causin’ ‘True Damage’ – this ain’t no normal poison. An’ there’s only one place that could make sommat like that, round these ‘ere parts…”

“I was hoping that wouldn’t sound as logical as it did,” Edelweiss muttered, arms crossing over her chest.

“…what’s that supposed to mean?” Pure Vanilla asked, voice sounding distant and tinny to his ears.

(The Sword of Damocles, hanging above his head.)

There was a sudden, sharp inhalation of realization, and then Pure Vanilla added hurriedly, “Wait. You cannot possibly mean- You can’t just say that, can you? I mean…accusations without proof? …Innocent until proven guilty, no?”

He didn’t sway. But white noise rushed through his ears, his vision started to fade grey around the edges. Blinding.

Distantly, he registered that Gooseberry sounded…bewildered. As if he couldn’t comprehend why Pure Vanilla was even arguing with him about this. “’Innocent until proven…guilty?’ Wha’s tha’ supposed t’mean? Anyway…I mean…you’ve ‘erd the stories, righ’? ‘Bout ‘is bein’ cast from tha’ school o’ His? Wha’ else would i’ be for, if not sommat like this? Dark Magics, they said, righ’? An' if this is ‘dark magic?’ I bet it is. ‘E’s one o’ the greatest mages around, anyway. …who else could do somethin’ like this? …no normal cookie, righ’?”

Edelweiss spoke next, words faint and thready to his ears. “I mean…it’s a dream to be a mage. To learn magic. …but we’re all…ordinary cookies. We don’t have magic. Even the great mages – the magisters of the Academy and the Institute – they…pale in comparison to…Him. I don’t doubt for one second that He could have done this. And…how can you fathom a God’s mind? …hidden in His Tower - …do you really think the concerns of little cookies even reach His thoughts, anymore? …if they ever did?”

(He could not escape it. The impression of the God they loved and loathed in equal measure. They had forsaken him long ago, for the mantle he wore. And so, it devolved. Questions unanswered. Answers unheard. The Truth unheard and unacknowledged until it went unvoiced. A soul, chained to the mask they had put on His face (It was his Purpose, after all). A people who had not yet accepted that they had left Eden, long ago. …How could he bridge the divide when they didn’t even see the cookie on the other side?)

(The elderly faerie cookie’s eyes bore into him.)

“…But I do see you. I’ve always seen you. …it’s you who’ve never seen me.”

(It’s not him they want, is it.)

Eyes. Too many eyes on him. Everywhere. Crawling over his skin, flicking open in his hair, (in the void beyond – watching judging looking but NEVER SEEING). Cold and uncaring and white. He swayed. Nearly stumbled. The weight slipped from his back and it had been the only thing reminding him that he wasn’t- Alone. He was alone. Alone alone ALoNEaloNEALONeALone-

“Bl- b- l. –b-el! -op- yo- -ee- to st-p!!”

Hands – rough, work worn hands – pulling his own away from his dough – sharp pain with each ragged inhale – the scent of jam – jam, trickling over his ribs – jam on his claws-

Warmth. Vanilla. Safety. Home.

(It was easier to let his mind float away, for a bit.)

***

Blueberry Milk was dead weight in his arms.

Carefully gathering the smaller cookie close, Pure Vanilla looked up at the cookies around him. He… didn’t know what to say.

Gooseberry Cookie was looking at the jam on his shaking hands like he didn’t recognize it. As if it were alien to him. There was a blank horror on his face that was echoed back in the numb shock scrawled across the various faces around him.

Uncomfortable, Pure Vanilla’s grip tightened around the cookie half hidden against his chest. How could he still salvage this… He doesn’t deserve this.

A rustle of skirts, the crackle and pop of ancient, fragile dough crouching down next to him. The eye of his beholder snapped unerringly onto the elderly faerie cookie crouched before him. Before he could object, she reached gnarled hands out and delicately, purposefully pushed Blueberry Milk’s bangs back, revealing Algiz upon his brow.

(And they would all know that mark. It was perhaps the only rune even the non-mages would know. For had they not all seen it imprinted onto the few statues of their Lord that still dotted the land? In grand colored sugarglass in the holy cathedral? And now, to know what it meant, Blueberry Milk had told them what it meant, it was unavoidable. There was a moment of profound silence, as the cookies were all forced to come to terms with the reality of the Fount before them.)

(What did it mean, that he always bore that mark, on his face? No matter who he purported himself to be.)

“Do you see, now?” The elderly faerie asked, softly. There was a strange gentleness in her tone. “This is the true face of the God we have all put in our sights.” Her eyes scanned Blueberry Milk, taking in everything, from the crown of his head to the tip of his tail. “Divinity, the Source of All Magic, the Keeper of Truth itself, and yet, His jam is on your hands. A cookie far beyond mere mortal cookies…and yet, to look at Him now, He is even less cookie than any of us.”

 Pure Vanilla pulled Blueberry Milk closer with each word that fell from the elderly faerie’s lips, a frown working onto his face. He wanted to tell her to stop, offer rebuttal, but he did not know how.

Or maybe it was the way she looked at Blueberry Milk. Almost reverently.

She reached out, fingertips brushing against the blackened, jam-stained claws.

“…I’m glad. To see Him again. Even after all this time. I…it’s been a long time, since I’d seen Him so happy as when he was going over arrays today.”

Pure Vanilla’s breath caught in his throat. “You knew.”

She smiled up a Pure Vanilla, expression soft and a little sad. “How could I forget? He will always be my Teacher, after all.”

She pulled away, straightening slowly. There was a shift in her expression, as if she were tucking that wide-eyed girl from a long lost yesterday away, and only the wizened, elderly faerie cookie remained. She bowed formally.

“I would still request the Fount of Knowledge’s aid in this matter. The poison leeching into the land…this is beyond us simple cookies and rests within the purview of our Lord. And…I would hope…if the Gods smile on us…to see Blueberry Milk Cookie again, too.”

(A stutter of the breath at his neck. Pure Vanilla smiled, but didn’t otherwise react.)

Pure Vanilla nodded, a reflection of his own days as a king, before standing, ignoring the sundry expressions from shock to reluctant admiration as he hoisted Blueberry Milk into his arms with ease.

“Gooseberry. Blackcurrant. You two will accompany them both back to the Spire.” The pair in question nodded wordlessly, still a little shell-shocked at the various revelations of the day.

“W-wait!” Came an urgent, little voice. A small hand, curling into his borrowed clothes, and Pure Vanilla found himself looking into Black Hyacinth’s dark eyes, lavender glinting faintly amongst the sea of obsidian. “W-will Blue Mr Magic- ah, Mr…Fount?... still come and play with us, again?”

Pure Vanilla swallowed, before letting a gentle expression settle on his face, mouth opening. It snapped shut with an audible click when Blueberry Milk started to shift in his arms, swaying like he was trying to get down. There was a moment of hasty movement, before the other cookie was standing on his own two legs once again.

The silence was nearly unbearable.

But slowly, Blueberry Milk looked down at the little cookie before him, and then patted the fluffy head of curls gently.

(It was all the acknowledgement the Fount could give.)

“Let’s go home, shall we, Bluebell?” he murmured gently to the other cookie, taking Blueberry Milk’s hand.

There was a distant expression on the scholar’s face, and something unfocused in his eyes as he looked over the assembled cookies one last time. Then he nodded, following. Obedient and quiet. Worn.

It was only as they were back before the Spire, that Gooseberry spoke again, staring up at the building, gaze unreadable. Pure Vanilla hadn’t afforded either much attention, even as both village cookies had been utterly silent, too preoccupied with the blue cookie at his side drifting along like he’d disappear, like a flame extinguished, at the first opportunity. Gooseberry stared at the jam on his hands a moment more, before he clenched them into fists. He turned to Blueberry Milk and asked, flatly, “Are ye’ really ‘im? The Fount of Knowledge?”

Blueberry Milk stopped dead. (A puppet with his strings cut). His face shuttered, something cold and distant and unknowable in his gaze. (An expression that might have been serene, if it didn’t seem like the cookies before him could not even reach the level of his gaze).

(Pure Vanilla’s heart stopped.)

“Am I,” the Fount asked easily, voice mild, as he let his magic unfurl outwards – the massive, uncompromising weight of God (so far beyond mortal ken) bearing down on them all.

Gooseberry Cookie’s face spasmed, before he squared his jaw. It didn’t stop him from taking an instinctive step backwards.

(Pure Vanilla panicked.)

“Blueberry Milk Cookie!” He dropped the head of his staff abruptly onto the shorter cookie’s head.

There was a moment of emptiness as three faces so far beyond shocked they were simply blank stared at him. He held his staff tightly, wondering if he’d need to swat the idiot cookie again.

“…you…hit me. You…hit me?” Blueberry Milk asked, ice behind his eyes warming, something wondering in his tone.

A smile wobbling across his face, Blueberry Milk reached out, clawed hand curling around his wrist in a way that might be called tender. With a tiny huff of relief, Pure Vanilla twined their fingers together.

He joined Blueberry Milk in climbing the last steps into the Spire, but he paused at the top, tugging the other cookie to stillness. With a tiny, tired smile, he turned back towards Blackcurrant and Gooseberry Cookies, and spoke, voice quiet and sure in the stillness around them. “I know it’s hard to believe. But we can be both God or Hero and yet still, fundamentally, naught more than a simple cookie.”

He paused a moment, before gesturing with his staff, letting the Truth of it fill his vision, before he added, “Is the proof not there, in the jam on your very hands?”

Chapter Text

Desperate for Changing

“You know,” Pure Vanilla said, voice half wry, half chiding, “That’s not how you get other cookies to know you.”

Blueberry Milk threw himself down onto the recliner across Pure Vanilla’s lap, reaching for one of the scattered blankets strewn haphazardly about, before attempting to smother himself with it.

With a fond, exasperated sigh, Pure Vanilla plucked the blanket from the other cookie’s claws and then threw it out over them both neatly. “And you were doing so well back there, too. …you even had Gooseberry hoping to become a mage, for a moment.”

Shooting the other cookie a half-hearted glare, Blueberry Milk responded, “Maybe I should have attempted to smother you with the blanket…”

He couldn’t hold the glare for long, however. Not with the way Pure Vanilla’s thumb tried to smooth out the wrinkles; tracing fanciful patterns on his dough, the mark on his brow. Sighing heavily, he relented, “…you heard what they said. …about me. This…situation. It’s…they didn’t even doubt for a moment that I might not have done this. Even when…I built them up. I gave them everything. Everything they are, everything they know – it all comes from me, and yet they still…regard me with such contempt? I tried to be what they wanted. They wanted a God? I gave them a God. I broke myself apart for them! And when I do something for myself – when I’m not exactly as they imagine – they throw me away!” A soft whine, before Blueberry Milk turned, curling up and burying his face in the warmth of Pure Vanilla’s robes, arms sliding to encircle the other’s waist. “…they threw me away,” He whispered once more.

Pure Vanilla shifted, just enough to tuck the other cookie against his abdomen comfortably, hand carding gently through Blueberry Milk’s hair. He hummed softly, as if to say ‘I’m still here,’ but didn’t speak, for a long moment, until, “I…I’ve been meaning to ask. Although I wasn’t certain…if I should. But…where are…the others? In all this?”

“…the others?” Blueberry Milk asked, something guarded and unhappy rumbling in his tone.

“The other……Virtues.” Pure Vanilla’s voice was soft and gentle. Nonthreatening.

Blueberry Milk’s glare was sharper, this time. He turned, cyan eye opening and corruption scar standing out starkly against his dough. “Where do you think they are?” The words were half a snarl.

Pure Vanilla’s answering expression was unimpressed – serene. He purposely traced the tell-tale mark, saying bluntly, “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking. All I know is I’ve the corrupted Fount of Knowledge cuddling in my lap.”

Blueberry Milk’s eye had closed of its own accord at the touch, a soft purr rumbling in his chest before both flew open at Pure Vanilla’s ending words, embarrassed shock painting his features before he hid bright indigo cheeks against Pure Vanilla’s robes.

Laughing softly, the healer said teasingly, “…not that I mind. At all.” With a tiny sigh and a more sober expression he continued, “I only meant… shouldn’t the other Virtues be here? Or you be there? …I would have thought you’d all be able to… support each other.”

(It was how he’d gotten through this same kind of suffering, so long ago, in a future so distant from now. He and his friends – they had all held each other up. Cookies still, despite different lives and the pressure of ‘Heroes.’)

Blueberry Milk turned again; eyes open but staring emptily at the arched ceiling of the library. Pure Vanilla’s hand trembled with a momentary flicker of unease, at that expression. Maybe…this is the true face of God… But the shaking of his fingertips didn’t stop him from softly – gingerly – brushing against the Fount’s forehead.

Pure Vanilla swallowed back his relief, as that blank expression faded into something more present.

“That…for something like that…it would have been…a long, long time ago, Pure Vanilla Cookie.” There was no denying the exhaustion in the Fount’s voice.

Tracing the contours of Blueberry Milk’s face, Pure Vanilla waited, patiently. “What…what do you think I am, Nilly? I…I am one of the first five cookies ever baked. I’m a Virtue. I know you have that Soul Jam of yours – but, even then, I don’t think you understand what that means. I’ve seen – I’ve Known – so much. More than you – than any cookie – could possibly fathom. More than should be Known. And I’ve endured it all. Endured Time itself. Time is the great enemy, Pure Vanilla. It broke us all. The others are just…farther gone than I.”

Blueberry Milk gave a sudden, huffing laugh that sounded half a sob, and scrubbed at his face with careless claws. “Because we are cursed. The Virtues themselves are a curse.  We were doomed from the very beginning. Our falls from grace inevitable.”

“Don’t- don’t say that!” Pure Vanilla exclaimed hastily, tugging the other cookie’s hands away from his face and quickly sending a pulse of over-strong healing magic through the other. He watched the tension bleed out of the Fount with a tiny sigh of relief, even as he cringed at the slightly dopey smile that stole across Blueberry Milk’s face. …apparently the calming properties of that spell had also been a touch overpowered.

“I- I mean, look at our time in Cremefeld!” He continued quickly. “You – you were reaching out to those cookies – they were reaching back – and even when things got a little…uncertain…for a moment, they didn’t reject you completely, did they? And, while there might be uncertainty on both sides – you definitely shouldn’t have pulled that last stunt with poor Gooseberry – the avenue is still open, right? For dialogue? Things can still change! The future isn’t set in stone!”

A shift, and it was only when Blueberry Milk was moving to sit up, concern in his eyes; reaching out to cup his face in blackened claws and voice a hushed whisper, (‘Peace, Nilly. What’s wrong?’), that he realized how badly he was shaking, each breath coming in sharp little pants.

Blueberry Milk pulled him closer, tail coiling around his waist and arms sliding around his shoulders. His own hands clutched at the Fount’s back in a white knuckled grip. Pure Vanilla willed himself to inhale deeply, to focus on the soothing scent of blueberry and crisp winter-starlight and even the faintest hint of something almost sour. Nose pressing even more firmly against the other’s dough, his mind began to settle and race, all at once. Blueberry Milk had worn corruption much more obviously – that sickly-sweet scent of rot – when he had first met the cookie what felt like an eternity ago, on the steps of the Spire. But now it was muted, milder. More milk-like. Something almost akin to a natural cookie scent.

Something in Pure Vanilla clutched onto that scent desperately. (It was proof. It had to be proof.)

“P- Pure Vanilla?” Came the other’s voice, soft and a little high-pitched.

Too relieved to let himself wallow in the embarrassment that clung to his edges, Pure Vanilla cupped Blueberry Milk’s cheeks, and said earnestly, “It’s not inevitable. I can’t believe that. I won’t.” I won’t let it be.

It was with a pang of frustration that he realized Blueberry Milk didn’t look all that hopeful. Wasn’t filled with the same determined belief.  Instead, the smile on his face was…bittersweet. With a flinch, Pure Vanilla tucked the cookie back into his arms, hiding that expression from view.

A soft, barely-there graze of lips against his dough (unintentional?) had all thoughts falling out his head. Then faint, distant words. “You really are far too kind for your own good.”

Shaking slightly and swallowing past the lump in his throat, Pure Vanilla whispered once again, “I won’t let you Fall.”

The Fount curled into his chest; face tucked into the crook of his neck as his tail coiled tenderly around Pure Vanilla’s form. A thumb passing soothingly over the healer’s knuckles (something warm and gentle, kind and sad but accepting curved protectively around his heart). “Oh, dearheart, I already have.”

***

“So. You recognized my Soul Jam?”

A claw gently poking into his side had him twitching. “Silly Vanilly. Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize my own Soul Jam?”

Peering down carefully at the cookie cuddled against his chest, taking note of the contented little flicks of the other’s tail, Pure Vanilla hazarded quietly, “I would have expected…a little more…attention? to it? At the very least.”

“I’ve been trying not to think too much on it,” Blueberry Milk confessed lightly. “But now that we’re on the topic, may I see it?”

It was only after his Soul Jam was safely deposited in the other’s claws that Pure Vanilla released a disbelieving little laugh. How far I’ve come!

Although, perhaps, he had been a little too hasty. Not because he feared Blueberry Milk’s actions, but because the sight of his Soul Jam in the Fount’s reverent hold had his stomach attempting acrobatics. And then, Blueberry Milk, with an intent expression on his face that could only be considered ‘cute’, pulsed a weak thrum of magic directly through his Soul Jam-

Pure Vanilla snatched the sugar-gem back with a sudden desperate movement, face incandescently hot. “D-d-don’t do that!”

Blueberry Milk just looked between his empty hands and the Soul Jam once again pinned to Pure Vanilla’s robes in wordless confusion.

“Nope!” He buried his face in midnight blue and silver strands and tried to calm his shaking heart.

At least the other cookie didn’t laugh at him, although he could feel the thrum of amused confusion even as Blueberry Milk patted the side of his head gently.

“What do you think?” He finally asked, voice a little hoarse, but steady.

Blueberry Milk was kind enough to allow the rather poor diversion, and said, instead, “Well, it’s definitely my Soul Jam. Or, well, more accurately it should be considered a ‘derivative of’ my Soul Jam.”

Unconsciously curling around the cookie in his lap, Pure Vanilla’s grip tightened minutely around the Fount. “…well?”

It was the tail moving to loop around his arm, fluffy tip swishing up and down his shoulder; the steady rumble picking up and vibrating through Blueberry Milk into his own chest and the resultant easing of the tension in his own dough that had him realizing how anxious he’d been.

…and it’s not even an overly powerful healing spell. Was purring always this soothing?

“Don’t worry. I know better than to ask questions when I’m not sure I could bear to listen to the answer.” Blueberry Milk’s voice was gentle. Kind. “And I won’t begrudge you your Truth.”

Pure Vanilla swallowed thickly.

Nuzzling into his neck, Blueberry Milk finally added, softly, “Truth has helped you Know me, hasn’t it? …how could I hate it? When I finally have-“ the Fount cut himself off quickly. Instead, he simply said, “whatever happens. In the future. As long as you don’t forsake me – it will have been worth it. To make it to this moment. Anyway,” he added, with a tiny, crooked little smile that showed off one of his fangs, “Knowledge is not so easily broken.”

(It should have been comforting. It should have been comforting. And yet, all he could think of was Blueberry Milk – a shell of who he once was – recoiling from his outstretched hand.)

(Forsaking himself, that he might not be forsaken.)

(It won’t happen. I won’t let it happen. I’ll save him.)

***

“Have you given any thought to how you’ll deal with the poison in the milk-supply at Cremefeld?” Pure Vanilla asked, voice soft in the hush of the room.

Eyes blinking open sleepily, the other cookie’s purring quietening briefly, before ratcheting up again as he leaned more heavily against the healer’s chest.

“Should be straightforward enough. Just need to craft an array that can pinpoint the source. …although that depends on the kind of poison, I suppose. Regardless, would still need to do a bit of alchemy to obtain a proper catalyst for the array. …or perhaps an anchor?” Blueberry Milk devolved into half intelligible muttering as his thoughts got the better of him.

“You know, it’s supposed to be difficult to craft an array from scratch, don’t you?” Pure Vanilla said, half laughingly.

He could hear the other cookie’s smug grin as the Fount said, “But you know who I am, don’t you?”

Snorting, Pure Vanilla pat the Fount on the head a few times in playful condescension. “Yes, yes, you are ‘the smartest cookie in all of Earthbread.’”

“Why, I never! I am the ‘smartest and most brilliant cookie in all of Earthbread, thank you very much!”

“Most handsome as well?” Pure Vanilla asked teasingly.

Chuckling as the other cookie started sputtering, the healer relented with a softer, “Well, it sounds like you know what you’d like to do. Can I have a portion of the milk for my own study? I want to see how it’s affecting the cream sheep, to better treat them, but I’ll need to figure out what exactly is the source of the ailment, first.”

“Of course. Our first step is necessarily figuring out what, exactly, has poisoned the milk-supply. From thence, we should be able to deal with it.”

“I’ve been wondering how you planned to go about doing that, too, you know,” Pure Vanilla said idly.

Blueberry Milk flicked his tail once, and then nestled deeper into Pure Vanilla’s hold. He yawned widely. “…I’ll show you the laboratory.”

“You have a laboratory?” Pure Vanilla asked, trying to keep his voice hushed but unable to hide his interest.

“Hmmm…later.”

Laughing slightly, even as a pulse of something warm and soft seemed to ricochet back and forth between them and made his Soul Jam sing, Pure Vanilla finally murmured, “I suppose that’s okay. Rest. I’ll be here.”

Chapter Text

You’ll Never Know, Dear (How Much I ---- You)

Blueberry Milk, it turned out, did not have ‘just a laboratory.’ Rather, the Spire (‘the Spire of All-Knowledge’ as he was swiftly told was its official title) had as many rooms as it had books in its massive library – dedicated to any and every subject. An observatory and outlook, tucked away under the gabled roof. The alchemy laboratory, to which they were headed. A completely separate magical laboratory, which Blueberry Milk promised to show him.

In retrospect, it made perfect sense. This was the Fount of All-Knowledge, after all. Blueberry Milk, more than just priding himself on his knowledge, lived and breathed it. (Was, perhaps, in some respects, the physical representation of Knowledge itself.) Even before, when he’d only known the Beast and barely the cookie beneath, he realized the other was not merely a curious cookie, but a thinking one. This was a cookie who enjoyed not only asking questions but also finding answers, and who loved sharing his insights more than either.

“-n’t give you a proper tour, before! After we’ve this all sorted out, I’ll be sure to show you all my other favorite spaces! Oh, but you; Is there anything you’d like to see? You liked the greenhouse, did you not? (…but I don’t have a proper garden…)”

“It’s alright, Bluebell! …your home doesn’t need to cater to my every whim, you know?”

Blueberry Milk slowed to a stop and it was somehow natural to follow suit. He peered upwards with that earnest, fanged little grin that suited him so.

“I know, Nilly. But, even so. I want you to feel comfortable here. I want…the Spire to be a…home, to you, too.”

(Something soft and gentle and bright pulsed almost tenderly through his Soul Jam.) Pure Vanilla swallowed convulsively, before reaching out to squeeze both the other cookie’s claws in his hands to stop his own from shaking. It didn’t change. Even all those years later – that desire of his…didn’t change?

Shakily tucking a strand of hair behind one tapered ear, (trying to hold back a smile, as another lock tried to curl around his fingers; smiling softly at the Eye peeking out at him and then losing his battle against the fond grin that stole across his face as the Eye in question winked shut in embarrassment), Pure Vanilla whispered, voice hoarse, “You; I’m sure you know what they say about ‘Home’ don’t you? I will always be Home, so long as I have all my favorite cookies by my side.”

He had meant it to be reassuring. An oblique way at confessing something he could not yet bear to look at directly. (He had all the Time in the world.)

(Did he?)

But something in Blueberry Milk’s face spasmed, and an echo of agony (the strongest emotion yet, the undeniable proof of the bond forming between them) lanced through his Soul Jam, instead.

It was in that moment of pain, that his own mind flashed to faces familiar. Faces he missed. (The scent of ginger, of strawberry, the sound of popping candy. The taste of bitter chocolate, shared between friends in the too early morning – the sound of laughter and fresh flow of juice – the sound of wings and proud, joyous, generous words – the scent of lilies.)

(He missed them. He missed them. How had he forgotten? And yet. Another scent. Blueberries and winter starlight and the faint sour tang of milk. Not just a scent. The feel of claws, curled around his hand, the brush of fur against his dough, the warm weight of this cookie who had begun to mean so much to him, pressed into his chest like he belonged there. Two Soul Jams that were only ever one singing in perfect harmony.)

(Blueberry Milk’s claws were shaking, as he scratched at his own chest viciously, expression twisted in the strangest combination of bitterness, loneliness and longing.)

Hurriedly grabbing the offending hand, Pure Vanilla pulled the other into his arms, saying firmly, “My ‘Home’ has a space for you in it. …needs you in it.”

Blueberry Milk didn’t respond, choosing instead to simply hold tighter to the cookie in front of him.

(He didn’t seem as relieved as Pure Vanilla had hoped.)

***

Arriving at the alchemy laboratory was a relief.

Pure Vanilla asked questions, coaxed responses out of his companion and tried to distract the both of them from the heaviness that had settled in the wake of that prior conversation. Blueberry Milk, thankfully, allowed himself to be drawn into a diversion.

“And you see here,” Blueberry Milk said, voice subdued, but with a faint hint of his normal excitement, “we have a whole host of specialized equipment for the evaluation of natural substances. I made most of these, actually, if only to better serve my purpose. I call this a centrifuge, for example. It’s useful in separating the disparate parts from certain fluids, such as milk. This is the array I made to keep it running. …and this is a specialized oven I crafted to help dry things out such that the particulate residue might be separated from its fluid component. …Actually, I’m rather proud of this array; it’s self-sustaining, you see, once you input the necessary magics to get it running-“

Blueberry Milk flashed him a tiny, but genuine smile, and Pure Vanilla heaved an internal sigh of relief. He let the other cookie prattle on, trying to keep up with the slowly pressurizing speech, as the Fount started to take him through the logistics of what he was realizing was probably the most complex form of magicanical engineering he’d ever seen.

Charmed, but after seven minutes of nonstop technical jargon also feeling slightly overwhelmed, Pure Vanilla put both hands on the other cookie’s shoulders, to stop the scholar from skittering about even more. “Bluebell. Breathe! Your eagerness is adorable, and I definitely want to know more, but you’re talking a little too fast.”

The other’s words dried up immediately, and Blueberry Milk gave a sheepish little smile, but there was the sensation of something uncertain and hesitant floating below Pure Vanilla’s ribcage that had him catching at the other cookie’s hand to give a reassuring squeeze.

“You know I love listening to you talk. I just…have a limited understanding of magicanical engineering? …if that’s what you’d call this. I am curious about how these arrays you’ve been going through help them function, though.“ Peering into the oven, Pure Vanilla added, “I would have thought the runes needed to be carved into the components themselves if my limited understanding were correct?”

Hands, coaxing him to remove his head from the inside of the oven, coupled with a flash of fond amusement. “That is mostly correct, yes, because you essentially need the runes to complete the circuit of the array including the object itself. As my tools are stationary, I can make do with a more complex array on the flooring, for instance, and just use a few simpler runes to anchor the oven into the completed working. I considered layering the arrays, initially...but that was much more complex than I'd initially planned for...

“But. Enough of that. You mentioned you wanted to study some of the cream sheep, right?” Blueberry Milk led them towards a little mountain of books and papers and scroll work that turned out to be a desk. Sweeping a series of papers off a stool and onto the marblecake flooring, he presented the seat to Pure Vanilla, before hopping up onto the edge of his desk himself.

Attention turning away from the topmost of papers sitting by his foot, Pure Vanilla nodded. “Yes. I’ll be the most help to you if I approach this from a healer’s standpoint.” With a slight sigh, he added, “I should probably head back to the village to ask more pertinent questions.”

A frown stole across the other cookie’s face as Blueberry Milk shook his head sharply, but it was the sudden deluge of something resembling panic in that spot just beside his heart that had Pure Vanilla’s true attention and concern. “No, that won’t be necessary.” The Fount said firmly.

Reaching forwards to grab the other’s hands, Pure Vanilla squeezed gently, and tried for reassuring. “It wouldn’t be for long, Bluebell. Just to help. I will return to you. You know that, right?”

The other cookie eased, ever so slightly, but still looked discontent. After a moment’s thought, Blueberry Milk realized, “Ah! I can just ‘borrow’ a cream sheep, if you need to study one.”

Pure Vanilla was already shaking his head in denial – they couldn’t just steal one! But Blueberry Milk’s smile had widened, and he looked particularly pleased with himself as he snatched up the pail of the milk in question and downed half of it. “Actually, an even better idea! We can just use me as a test subject!”

“Blueberry Milk Cookie! You can’t just- are you mad?!”

“Oh, do not fear, something like this won’t have a permanent effect on me, I assure you.”

“I’d rather it not have any sort of affect at all!”

“But this is perfect, now you don’t have to waste time leaving unnecessarily-”

“You are not a cream sheep! And we don’t know how this affects milk-based cookies, only that it does-“

Pure Vanilla’s further objections were cut off as he watched Blueberry Milk’s form twist and fold in on itself, blue-black magic flaring until he was left facing a little white cream sheep, stained a little closer to grey at the tips of each curl of cream. It bleated happily at him, cyan and cobalt eyes curving in an expression that was equal parts pleased and self-satisfied.

“This is not how these things are supposed to work,” Pure Vanilla said, a lump sitting strangely in his throat, as he reached out to gather the little sheep into his arms, holding it close.

There was a moment he thought Blueberry Milk might struggle, as the cream sheep stiffened in shock. But then, the little creature nuzzled into his robes, cuddling against him purposefully, and Pure Vanilla curled around it.

It still smelt of winter starlight and blueberries with the slightest tang of nearly sour milk.

“…I think you need to work on hiding your scent, too,” Pure Vanilla whispered into the fluffy whorls of wool.

The little cream sheep headbutt into his abdomen gently, as if to say, ‘I’m working on it,’ and he laughed, scratching behind the sheep’s ears.

(Maybe… this isn’t so bad. Is better, even. At least better than the tension lingering from before.)

There was a single, quiet moment, before he tilted the animal’s small head to look up at him. Seriously, he said, “I don’t want you to be hurt. ‘Not having…permanent effects’ didn’t even cross my mind, Bluebell. I don’t like seeing you in pain, or suffering.”

There was a moment where the sheep’s form seemed to flex and wobble, and then Blueberry Milk appeared on his lap, form curling around him and tipping them both backwards off the stool.

“Bluebell?” Pure Vanilla’s words were half a laugh; winded yet not displeased with the weight of the other cookie curled atop him.

He could feel the other shudder, shifting as if to speak, but then Blueberry Milk’s eyes flew open and he was rolling off him and trying to stumble to his feet before simply giving up and huddling on the marblecake flooring, leaning heavily against the desk. There was the sudden, familiar sound of retching, and then Pure Vanilla himself was scrambling upwards, to reach his companion.

There was jam, dripping from Blueberry Milk’s lips. And when the Fount looked up, gaze almost frightened, there were spots of grey staining around his eyes.

It was the same color that had leeched into his cream sheep-form’s wool.

Shocked, Pure Vanilla ignored the jammy mess at their feet and hauled the other cookie up bodily, not even bothering to let Blueberry Milk walk when he realized the other cookie was shuddering faintly, claws curling weakly into his robes as short, panting breaths rung loudly in his ear. But it was the Fount’s tail, hanging limply – as if what weakness that had stolen across the other was too much for him to even muster that typical affectionate curl – that had Pure Vanilla finally devolving into a panicked sprint away from the laboratory.

“Stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why are you this stupid?! This is why we don’t ingest strange substances!!”

He had carefully deposited the Fount onto his bedspread before he’d realized that he’d taken the other cookie onto the familiar path to the guest room he’d made his own, rather than asking Blueberry Milk where his own quarters were. (There was a moment where he stood, shocked at his own audacity while he studiously ignored the flare of something nearly pleased inside him as he gazed down at Blueberry Milk on his bed, before he pushed the emotion away briskly.)

Claws, tugging at his robes weakly.

The tips were stained that self-same blue-grey.

He was beginning to hate that color.

“Hey. I’ll be fine. …Immortal, remember?” Blueberry Milk’s voice was even more hoarse than the first time he’d heard it, each word coming out in breathless little pants.

Something in him snapped, at those words. Hands curling tightly, he stared at Blueberry Milk unflinchingly, eyes and beholder both. “If you think, for one second, that that could be a comfort to me, you know far less of me than you think.”

The widening of the scholar’s eyes – the sudden, unadulterated shock coursing through him undeniably – might have been endearing, had he not been so furious.

Reaching out to clean up some of the mess of jam and bile on the other’s chin, he said severely, “I will not forget our purpose with this – I will get as good a grasp as I can of this poison – I will run a diagnostic upon you, will heal you, and you will not object. Understand?”

The other cookie nodded dumbly, eyes still wide.

Relenting, Pure Vanilla shuddered, before leaning over and pressing his forehead against the scholar’s. “Please,” he begged softly, “You must take better care of yourself. How can you care for yourself so little, when I-“

His jaw clacked shut tightly, and he pulled away to hide the evidence of emotion beading at his eyes.

…when I care (----) you so much?

***

Pure Vanilla kept to his word.

He ran his diagnostics on the cookie before him. Took notes. Documented the way that the poison seemed so incredibly strong in Blueberry Milk – the way it seemed caustic – almost corrosive, damaging the other cookie’s insides like he’d been burned from within. The way it traveled with Blueberry Milk’s magic, ruining as it went, depositing in any and each spot of the Fount’s dough. The way it brought lethargy and small tremors to the Fount’s limbs. Watched as that bravado the Fount had shown him, the confidence in his own infallibility and immortality, gave way to something truly mortal as suffering and weakness and exhaustion tugged the Fount under. Held the cookie close when Blueberry Milk curled desperately around him, temperature higher than it should have been, as the other cookie searched desperately for a scent he could not find. (‘Van’illa- ‘nilla- where? Where?! Where is- I need- Don’t leave me alone! Please- pleasepleasepleaseplease-‘)

(Blueberry Milk’s saving grace was the thing that ruined him. His magic and immortality kept him alive – repaired the damage done – but it was that self-same magic that spurred the poison to new heights.)

In the end, all Pure Vanilla could do was hold the other cookie too tightly and support him through the worst of it.

(Pray to the witches: Please don’t take my other half away.)

Chapter Text

Let him Be, Let him Live

Hand gliding over sweat-damp locks, Pure Vanilla’s eyes drifted shut in exhaustion, before they snapped open again.

The other cookie was a treacherous weight stretched out atop him, nose pressed heavily into the curve of his throat, tail finally curled loosely around his leg. It would have been comfortable, relaxing even, if it weren’t for how terrified he still was to rest for even a moment.

He had thrown that necessary boundary - between healer and patient - away when Blueberry Milk had become delirious on day three, as keeping the Fount in close contact with him seemed to help.

(It was all he could do; little things. Hold Blueberry Milk and hair both, when the Fount attempted to purge what of the poison he could on day one. Wipe the sweat from the other cookie’s brow and magic his fever down when it became clear that the poison the other cookie had absorbed would have its way with him, regardless. Support the other cookie’s breathing with a specialized respiratory array. Attempt to feed the Fount nutrient rich milk, that he might supplement one of the other cookie's primary ingredients, so long as the delirium that had arisen by day three had abated for a moment. Be the other's hands in the face of the tremors and weakness that had stolen the strength from Blueberry Milk's limbs.)

(Sometimes, all a healer could do was be kind, and beg it would be enough.)

And catalogue. Pure Vanilla could catalogue. His mind could go over each and every aspect of this illness with near manic intensity. A compulsive comparison between what he knew of this poison’s symptoms and any poison, illness, or strange little nugget of information he’d ever known.

Because it bothered him. He’d been distracted by the rapid deterioration of the cookie in his arms. Forced to contend with the acute issues – the jammy emesis, the respiratory and motor compromise – and so he’d forgotten. The discoloration of the tips of Blueberry Milk’s claws, the grayish color that had leeched into the areas around his eyes.

Where had he seen that, before?

(He couldn’t recall.)

Perhaps it was little more than his own distraction, but he’d begun to contemplate if this had been some sort of trick. A vile plot, against the Fount? Had those other cookies known who his Bluebell was, all along, when they’d allowed the pair of them to take that innocuous pail of milk?

(It was the mad paranoia of a desperate, sleep deprived mind. He knew that. Black Hyacinth was a cheerful little boy. Edelweiss was a girl, not quite a grown cookie, who played at adulthood. Gooseberry was surly and blunt and wary of the Fount but honest in that. He’d not stoop to underhanded means. Blackcurrant had seemed so charmed, by the magic the Fount had shown them.)

(They all had.)

But still. The unease remained.

Why does this poison seem tailor made for Blueberry Milk?

***

Pain. (No. He didn’t even feel pain anymore. Not after those first horrible hours where his dough and magic had been at war within itself, mana fractured and splintering, doughy insides burning as if he’d been returned to the Oven, once again. He had long since progressed beyond simple pain – shot through that threshold to where everything was a deep, persistent ache.)

Fatigue. (Yes. His mind. His magic. His dough. Dulled. Dragging. Disjointed.)

Cold. (Yes. No? He was always cold. Always. The only time he wasn’t was when-)

Vanilla.

He couldn’t move. Not really. Not when even the expansion of his rib-cage with each breath hurt.

(But he would chase that scent – that cookie – forever.)

Nose pressing closer to that familiar warmth (the scent of Home), his eyelids fluttered. His fingertips twitched.

A moment of quiet he did not register, all his faculties intent on seeking vanilla, then-

Hands. Movement. Noise- (Too loud. Too much!)

He growled.

The movement stilled, the noise lessened, and yet somehow the cacophony was made even worse as pain-fatigue-cold was overrun by fear-despair-longing-hope-(lovelovelove?) and it was all too much when his mind was thick and syrupy. It was a familiar feeling, he did not know why he was feeling like this (did vanilla always make him feel like this?) but anxiety coiled in his already sensitive gut, and he needed to make that feeling better-

He started purring. Loudly.

(Shock-confusion-amusement-affection-warmth)

Better.

He nosed deeper into vanilla, and let himself drift off, once again.

(Didn’t notice the tears at his crown, or the relief-not-his in his heart.)

***

Fingers, gently combing through his hair. Tangling and untangling from strands that met those motions, curl-for-curl. Gentle rocking that resolved itself into the slow, steady inhale-exhale of breath. Warmth. So much warmth.

A hand, scratching softly at the base of his tail.

What?!

Mind suddenly hyper-aware of only one thing and yet short-circuiting at the same time, he whined quietly, trying to ignore the way that soothing touch was turning him into a proverbial puddle. (Had already caused him to melt into a happy, rumbling haze).

But maybe he’d already given himself away, because those wonderful fingers were already moving away from his fur and he whined softly again, tail shifting sluggishly as if to give chase.

It was far, far harder than it should have been.

There was something coaxing and warm, and then a feather-light brush of fingers against his ear, and a whisper-soft voice, “can you open your eyes for me, Bluebell?”

Frankly, he would do anything that voice asked of him, especially if those hands went back to petting his tail. The problem was the task before him was much more difficult than he’d anticipated. Each little movement pulled at muscles he’d only intellectually known existed, and he was panting softly by the time he had cracked one eye open enough to see the warm, autumnal gold that was the best color in all the world.

A few more minutes of gentle anticipation, before he worked up the energy to mouth ‘Nilla?’ against soft dough.

A sigh, as arms slid around his back, holding him in a tight, protective embrace. He relaxed again, as that warmth surrounded him.

“I’m here, Bluebell.” Then, “Can you wake up a bit more, for me?”

It was hard. It was still so hard. A deep, dull ache pulled at his muscles while weakness had his limbs trembling. Even using his magic to help him move pulled like a muscle overused. Pure Vanilla had to help him. But slowly, they were sitting up together, and then he was resting against the headboard alone. He focused on regulating his breathing to distract himself from how cold leaving Pure Vanilla’s embrace left him.

But that warmth wasn’t gone for long. Soon, heat was pressed into his side and hands fluttered around him in that eternal way all healers had – against his brow; measuring the thready hum of his pulse; palm flat against his chest accompanied by soft counting that passed in and out of his hearing; gentle, murmured commands – ‘squeeze my hand’, ‘look up?’, ‘open your mouth?’, 'smile for me?' – an efficient examination that he recognized but was having difficulty understanding, at the moment. So, he simply complied. Preferred to chase after that warmth when it inevitably left his dough.

In the end, Pure Vanilla settled in next to him, and something warm was brought to his lips; he tried to guzzle it down greedily. Too greedily, and Pure Vanilla held him when ragged breathing sunk into gasping coughs.

“Easy now; easy does it, Bluebell. You’ve got to take your time-“

Even more tired than before, he cuddled up into Pure Vanilla’s side. Tried to help guide the sugarglass to his lips, but moved to encasing the glass in his magic instead when his limbs felt weighted down by spicestone.

“How are you feeling?” Pure Vanilla asked, when they’d set the remainder of the warmed milk-and-honey aside.

Nuzzling into Pure Vanilla with happy sigh, he tried to reply, words sticking to his throat, before he was finally able to croak out, “Cold.”

A soft sigh, too heavy a sound for him to interpret at the moment, but ultimately it didn’t matter. Because then Pure Vanilla wrapped an arm back around him, and he was finally back where he should be, and he became distantly aware of a soothing happy, rumble that swiftly became even louder when warm hands brushed against his brow again. “Still a bit too warm,” Pure Vanilla whispered into his hair.

“…cold,” he said again, in disagreement, nestling closer pointedly.

“I suppose you are.” A rustle and then vanilla - the wonderful, wonderful scent of vanilla - was surrounding him utterly.

“…stay with me.”

“…I’m here.”

***

After spending a brief eternity in a panicked haze, once he had confirmation that Blueberry Milk would recover (awaken) with time, it was inevitable that he would collapse in exhaustion. The physical and emotional stress of it all could simply no longer be ignored. Not when his Bluebell was finally safe. The nonstop purring had been the last straw – he had finally fallen asleep not long after Blueberry Milk had.

But even so, the other cookie still needed more rest than he, and when he awoke next, more alert than he’d been in days, he was finally ready to relinquish the death-grip he’d had on the cookie in his arms.

The Fount’s pulse was stronger. His breathing deeper. The steady thrum of magic within him less the discordant clashing of a destabilized galaxy and more the steady hum of an ancient universe.

Blueberry Milk was finally healing.

So Pure Vanilla moved to clean up the mess that had become his room. Let in light and fresh air as he opened windows. Piled the used cups away. Moved to make the next batch of slightly more nutrient-rich honey-milk.

Finally returned to settle in at the Fount’s side, studying the other cookie’s discolored claws with a thoughtful frown. At least the silvery color is returning to bla-

Silver.

Vanilla beholder moving closer to the claws in question as if he could divine the color through touch as well as sight, Pure Vanilla’s mind raced elsewhere.

Those knights- but they were never sick? But they changed – lost flavor and scent – but Blueberry Milk didn’t- dose dependent? Duration? Administration? No, ‘a blessing’ vs direct contact? Ingestion? What does ‘a blessing’ even mean? But silver pollutes – it spreads – look at the whole Silver Kingdom- and Cremefeld was changing, the difficulty farming – even the food in the Silver Kingdom was peculiar- but how? Where did it even come from? I thought all silver-

How.

(His thoughts. Horribly, horribly silent. On the precipice of something terrible.)

He turned slowly, staring unseeingly at the cookie sleeping quietly in his arms.

Even now, they still call it the ‘First Silver River.’ So that name cannot have come from the Sealing. Silver cannot have come from the Sealing alone. A substance, with a strong affinity for magic. With more acute and more violent, comprehensive effects either the more direct contact it has with a cookie or magic or both.

…and who are the cookies with the greatest amount of magic in this world?

…Who have always had the greatest amount of magic in this world.

He has to clasp his hands over his mouth to stop the hysterical laughter from bubbling forth.

And I feared this poison tailor made for the Fount of Knowledge.

(Because perhaps it was. Tailor made for the cookies who would one day become Beasts.)

(Were already Beasts.)

Chapter Text

(---) is Flying too Close to the Sun

He awoke to panic so cloying he could taste it.

Eyes (all of them) flaring open, he looked around wildly, shooting upwards with a wrench of magic to hold himself steady when his muscles failed to support him.

There was no danger – just Pure Vanilla with his hands on his face like the other cookie was trying to contain some desperate scream.

A sudden sugar rush of energy had him swaying forwards, claws grasping at the other cookie’s wrists to pull Pure Vanilla’s hands away from his mouth, words tumbling out rapidly. “Nilly? What’s wrong! Are you alright? Are you hurt? Injured?”

Pure Vanilla was just…staring at him.

“Nilly?!” He shook the other cookie, uncoordinated.

A beat of stillness.

Arms. Wrapping around him, pinning his limbs to his sides, toppling him backwards with a soft thump. He stared upwards at the cookie hovering over him, Pure Vanilla’s hair a golden curtain hiding them away from the cold, unforgiving world.

Swallowing roughly, heart thumping loudly in his chest, he reached up to tuck a strand of gold behind Pure Vanilla’s ear.

“Nilla?” He tried again, more quietly.

Something flashed in the hidden space behind his heart – a confusing tangle emotions too thick to parse – before Pure Vanilla collapsed on top of him softly. Arms held him close, and there was nothing he could do to stop the tears falling into his hair.

So, with slow, deliberate movements, each motion more of a struggle than it should have been, he tangled his claws in Pure Vanilla’s robe, twined his tail loosely around one of Pure Vanilla’s legs, and simply held the other cookie as he cried.

***

“We need to talk.” Pure Vanilla spoke with quiet surety, sitting down beside him. Looking up from the glass of enriched milk the other cookie had given him, he frowned slightly, before setting the drink aside. Pure Vanilla’s expression was almost…blank. Serene in a way he’d never seen before.

He might have been lulled into a false sense of security, if it weren’t for the steady pulse of fear and anger pounding away behind his heart.

It had taken him some minutes to register the strangeness of that, to understand the significance of it, even as it heightened his own mounting insecurity.

We are…going to have to…talk about …that, too.

His eyes darted up to Pure Vanilla’s gently smiling face, and he suppressed a shiver as anxiety coiled even more strongly within him.

Pure Vanilla simply continued in that frightfully calm tone. “I have been circling this for days. Trying to figure out the right thing to say. Wondering if I have the right to say anything at all. But, even so. Even so, all I can think is ‘How dare you.’ How dare you, Blueberry Milk Cookie. Hurt yourself; care so little for your own well-being. And over such a petty reason! Due to your own jealousy and fear! Do – do you know what it’s been like, for me? These past days? Watching you get weaker, your breathing shallower? Watching your delirium get worse and worse and worse and being able to do nothing to help but hold you? And all because – all because you didn’t want me to go to the village?”

There was a beat of silence as Pure Vanilla took in a trembling breath, before he continued, voice coming faster, tainted by the way the other cookie was losing the battle against his raging emotions. “I care for you. I care for you so much. You are the other half of my soul. Nothing will change that. Not now. Not the future. You are everything to me. …please. Please. I beg of you. You must be kinder to yourself. Gentler with yourself. You must. Do you think I haven’t seen the way your claws rip your own dough so easily, and yet handle mine so tenderly? It hurts, Blueberry Milk. That you love yourself so little, when I-“

Pure Vanilla was shaking. Or maybe he was shaking. (They both were shaking.)

Falling over himself in his haste to wipe away the tears falling from dull eyes, he whined softly; a wounded, animal sound. A sob burst out of Pure Vanilla’s throat in response.

“Please- pleasepleaseplease- don’t cry- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to – I didn’t think-“

“You will break me, Blueberry Milk. If you hurt yourself in this way again. I cannot bear it-“

Trying to worm into the hollow of Pure Vanilla’s chest, every instinct screaming at him to bring comfort, to make Pure Vanilla stop crying, he nuzzled into the other cookie’s chest, purring as his tail coiled and uncoiled restlessly around warm dough while he ran his claws up and down Pure Vanilla’s back spasmodically, until he finally whispered desperately (a plea and explanation and nonsense all at once), “you are the Sun.”

Pure Vanilla’s grip tightened radically around him, hands digging into his dough. “And you are the entire World.”

(…It could never be a worthy explanation. Not when they had ever been binary stars, balanced in their collision course.)

Pressing closer still, nuzzling into warm dough, he spoke, promise a brand against Pure Vanilla’s neck.  “…I will try. If this is what it does to you- …I will try. To not hurt myself because I fear…losing you.” He swallowed thickly. “But you…must understand. I’m already so very broken. So, hurting myself further matters little. …not compared to the way losing you would break me beyond repair.”

Pure Vanilla shook his head roughly. “It matters to me, Blueberry Milk Cookie! …it matters to me.”

(But what else could he even say? What else could make this right? He’d already spoken the Truth. Pure Vanilla was his salvation and damnation, all at once.)

***

He wasn’t happy. (Neither of them was happy. Too many things left unsaid in a conversation too painful to continue.)

But at least Pure Vanilla didn’t push him away.

The other cookie was content to let him lean into his side and just…exist. Together. In this moment.

(It was hope. That maybe one day, if not today, he might not be quite so broken. Could maybe become a better cookie, for Pure Vanilla. That maybe, within the refuge of Pure Vanilla’s safe harbor, he could become a better version of himself.)

Pure Vanilla snagged one of his hands, tracing over one of his claws gently, peering down at the tinge of grayish discoloration. He grimaced slightly. It had been bad enough, when his dough had darkened due to corruption, cobalt sparking into black. …now the same had happened again from this illness?

Trying to smile, he said, “I am becoming multicolored.”

Pure Vanilla was kind enough to huff out a laugh, but his fingers clenched a little tighter around the claws in his hand. “I…Bluebell. This is…something else we need to talk about. Hm. I’m – does the word… ‘silver’ mean anything to you?”

He stiffened. He couldn’t help it. “That is…an obscure topic? Where did that come from?”

Pure Vanilla looked slightly sick as he tapped one grey-tipped claw. “I…there were some cookies I met, once. They’d all lost their scent and flavors to ‘silver’ and their dough had discolored over time to something akin to this. They weren’t sick, like you were, though.”

“But that’s…” He responded before trailing off, mind working furiously but sluggishly as he attempted to fight off days of illness.

“So, you do know of it,” Pure Vanilla whispered, sounding truly ill, this time. “It…didn’t even occur to me that it could exist in the here and now, at first.”

Attention caught, he turned narrowed eyes on his companion, before saying cautiously, “While neither well-studied nor well-understood, the ore is not unknown. It’s incredibly difficult to obtain, however, as it’s native to only the Silver Mountain of the Faeriewood, never mind that the faeries that hail from that way are an...insular lot. …we knew about it, of course, and there had been some interest in studying it in magical circles centuries ago, due to its inherent magical affinity…but that was ultimately shelved due to silver’s disruptive properties. It’s not a good conductor of magic, not like gold is.”

There was something almost like dread, in Pure Vanilla’s tone. “So, it’s…got containing properties, perhaps?”

Nodding slowly, gaze thoughtful, he continued, “Yes; while both silver and gold have strong magical affinity, silver is predominantly useful in containment or isolation. It insulates against the flow of magic, and, conceivably, would be useful in seals or wards. Gold, on the other hand, is far more commonly used and known, because it conducts and streamlines magic, thus potentially amplifying it, when used correctly.”

With a heavy sigh, he finally disentangled himself from Pure Vanilla’s side to better look into the other cookie’s eyes. Fatigue dragged at his limbs, and he clenched his jaw to hide a yawn but still made a point to look up at Pure Vanilla attentively (with an accompanying thrum of hesitant worry), asking, “Nilly? What’s wrong?”

The other cookie’s expression – torn between laughing it off and crying – was horrifying in a way he couldn’t explain, made impossibly worse for the sudden spike of absolute terror that shot through the space behind his heart. Fear and concern beginning to writhe within his own heart, he asked again, “Pure Vanilla?”

He had only an instant to see the way Pure Vanilla’s expression twisted into something nearly tortured. Then, the larger cookie tipped forward once more, falling heavily on top of him and pushing him backwards bodily onto the bedspread. He gasped audibly, before his face was shoved into the crook of Pure Vanilla’s neck and shoulder, and then his mind went utterly, impossibly still as Pure Vanilla said, “Don’t ask. Please. Anything but that. I can’t. Not now. Not like this. …when it’s safe. I’ll tell you. Promise. Because I’ll make it safe. But not yet.”

Swallowing roughly, Blueberry Milk curled shaking hands over Pure Vanilla’s trembling shoulders. Those words felt like a warning. A curse. But…he’d already stayed his tongue. Already committed to questions unasked and truths untold. (Why did Pure Vanilla bear Truth in the first place?) And, in the face of the overwhelming, mind-numbing fear that echoed into him from deep within Pure Vanilla’s soul, well, the choice was obvious.

What was one more?

***

He hadn’t realized what it would mean, this desire of his, to stay at another cookie’s side.

But now, after Pure Vanilla sobs had faded into exhausted silence, after the tears had ceased to drip into his hair, he was forced to confront that reality: to remain at another cookie’s side was to necessarily have them remain at his side, too.

And he had nearly removed himself from Pure Vanilla’s side, hadn’t he.

(Or well, not really. He had complete confidence in his survivability. He was a Virtue, after all. But, if he Knew one thing, it was that Knowing and believing were two very different things. He could Know everything in this world, and still fail to have any other cookie believe in him, after all.)

(He’d just thought Pure Vanilla would be different.)

Claws tightening marginally around Pure Vanilla’s shoulders, he nosed gently against the other cookie’s neck, inhaling the calming scent of Vanilla. It was criminally difficult to sense.

Well…I suppose he does have a point. This has been…a patently stupid endeavor from start to finish. I seem to have destroyed my sense of smell, my motor function, compromised my respiratory state and probably turned my innards into overcooked dough, given how much it hurts to swallow even some milk right now. …all because of silver? 

Staring up blankly at the ceiling through a faint film of golden strands, his thoughts continued to wander.

And I’m tired. I don’t think I’ve ever been this…tired. The silver seems to have sapped most of my magical reserves, or I sapped them fighting it off, or it used the magic within me to its own ends; if this is what mortals routinely feel like, this is terrible-

His thought’s screeched to a halt. Mortal.

With all his eyes (hair and true both), he looked at Pure Vanilla. Truly looked at him. Saw the way tension had dug furrows in the other cookie’s brow. The shadows that appeared as if they’d been painted on, beneath the other cookie’s eyes. …Pure Vanilla looked…thinner.

A more pronounced frown worked its way onto his face even as he swallowed back the unhappy whine that wanted to escape him. Best not to wake his companion up.

I don’t like this.

Wiggling even closer to Pure Vanilla, he shyly brushed his lips against Pure Vanilla’s dough, feeling strangely young. Then he hid in the shadow of Pure Vanilla’s throat, cheeks radiating heat.

At least the solution is laughably simple. I just have to make sure that no one can take him from me…and that I can’t be taken from him.

Claws tightening enough that he started to tear little holes into Pure Vanilla’s robes, he tried to relax. It was a futile effort. How could he stop when every part of him, from hair to tail to limbs to everything in between, yearned to keep Pure Vanilla ever at his side?

This means…we need to deal with the silver first. If I think about it logically, Nilly’s trying to get me allies, isn’t he. What with going to Cremefeld in the first place. And now, coupled with the silver…something’s coming. His mind flashed back to Pure Vanilla’s tortured expression, his near incoherent, desperate words. Which means the more important question than even the issue of Cremefeld is who is studying silver, and why.

And then, maybe Nilla will stop being so afraid.

With a quiet groan, he nuzzled against Pure Vanilla a moment, seeking comfort from the most comforting cookie around. I guess that means I will have to deal with those petitions…and make a surprise visit to either the Institutes or the Academy. …Likely the Institute – I’d have noticed if something were happening in my Academy, after all.

…and then there’s whatever magical resonance is developing between us. Which is…actually which is something that is rather interesting …but is also potentially becoming a problem? If Nilly is feeling everything that I am as I felt his fear… even more embarrassed than when he’d brushed his lips against the other’s neck, he squirmed slightly, before settling even more thoroughly against Pure Vanilla.

But it’s nice. Having his warmth ever pressed against my heart.

Unable to stop the contented purring rumbling in his chest, he yawned, eyes slowly drifting shut one by one. Ah, I’m too tired for this. And, somehow, when he’s with me, none of it seems to matter quite as much as it should.

(Perhaps inevitably, given the recent circumstances, (but unusually so, now that Pure Vanilla had come into his life), his dreams, that night, were a confusing mishmash of silver and pain and rattling and darkness, even as he desperately tried to protect the tiny sliver of flickering warmth nestled deep within the hollow of his heart.)

Chapter Text

The Tension is Here (Between Who You Are and Who You Could Be)

It swiftly became evident that it was easier to use his magic to keep himself aloft than to walk.

Unfortunately, Pure Vanilla took one look at him hovering off the ground, made a uniquely complicated expression before shaking his head like some sort of irritated cake hound. “Absolutely not.” He was then hauled back to solid ground and made to go through some terrible torture called ‘physical therapy’ like an invalid. In the end, he’d needed to bring his staff out to use as an actual support.

“This is demeaning and unnecessary,” he’d said, as Pure Vanilla showed him some exercises that caused discomfort in muscles that he’d been better off ignoring the existence of entirely, only for the words to go in one of Pure Vanilla’s ears and out the other like the healer were a particularly inattentive student.

Annoyed, he tried again (and maybe attempted a stretch that was less a purposeful movement and more a kick in Pure Vanilla’s direction), “Really. I don’t know what you’re so distressed by. I’m a Virtue. I have more mana than I know what to do with, and my body will repair itself with time. Frankly, you should be impressed that I can levitate indefinitely never mind that I’ve managed to make a spell of it; this would have the people at the Institute frothing at the mouth, I tell you-“

Catching the offending appendage deftly, Pure Vanilla shot him an unimpressed look, saying flatly, “No. Shortcuts.”

Rebelliously flying even higher, Pure Vanilla stopped him from floating away by catching his tail- He froze. Unable to move. To breathe. Thoughts spiraling down to that one vanishingly small point of physical contact, inevitable as gravity.

(His tail, traitor that it was, curved around Pure Vanilla’s hand as if it had no qualms about the forwardness of it all.)

Floating ever so slightly closer, he said, voice thick, “You’ve grown…rather bold of late, haven’t you.”

Pure Vanilla started scratching at the soft fur, a fond smile on his lips, and he was sinking lower yet even as his mind simultaneously shied away from and couldn’t stop remembering the impossible sensations that had come from Pure Vanilla’s fingers scratching deftly at the base of his tail the first time- (melty and warm and he never wanted it to stop-).

“Ah, there we are,“ he heard though a pleasant haze, realizing with a start that Pure Vanilla had somehow got him back down beside him…and had got him purring, again.

…Dangerous. This cookie is dangerous.

(It didn’t stop him from leaning more heavily into Pure Vanilla’s touch.)

“Don’t you know it’s impolite to touch another cookie’s tail without permission?” He mumbled into Pure Vanilla’s chest, voice slurred.

“Met many of those, have you?” Pure Vanilla said, a touch dryly.

It took…an embarrassingly long time for those words to make sense, and he was having difficulty finding the proper response, so he just growled softly at Pure Vanilla instead.

Laughing, Pure Vanilla indulged him (or perhaps himself) a few moments more before finally admitting quietly, fingers tracing out little whorls in the fur, “I’ve wanted to do this since Cremefeld, you know.” A moment of silence, before Pure Vanilla’s hand drifted more purposefully beneath the hem of his robes, towards that spot, and he was going to combust- “I wish you wouldn’t be so quick to always hide your vulnerabilities away.”

Feeling he were half liquefying in Pure Vanilla’s lap, he nonetheless dragged out, words slow and lethargic, “’s dangerous. Being vulnerable.” Then, before his mind caught up with him, “I want my intimacy to be yours.” Trembling at the honesty, heart throbbing, he hid his burning face away in Pure Vanilla’s safety.

(Something throbbed in the shadow of his heart. That tiny flickering flame of warmth – flaring in a tidal wave of affection-adoration-warmth-want-sorrow-fearfearfear (lovelovelove?) and his claws tightened reflexively around Pure Vanilla’s neck as he burrowed closer even as Pure Vanilla own embrace became nearly painful in its intensity.)

He swallowed the questions back.

(Pure Vanilla had begged him not to ask.)

(So all he could do was comfort the other cookie as best he could; purring softly and nestling deeper into Pure Vanilla’s hold. Trying to say ‘I’m here.’ And: ‘I will always seek your warmth.’)

***

Blueberry Milk was startlingly weak. Worryingly so.

He hadn’t understood the implications of watching the Fount walk around everywhere until faced with the moment the other cookie chose to float.

(He had never stopped floating. Not until that final moment at the end when he’d collapsed onto the crumbling ruin of the Spire. And if this was what happened when Blueberry Milk was exposed to a relatively small amount of silver…what horrors had the sealing wrought upon him?)

(He couldn’t bear it. I’ll save him.)

Suddenly dragging absolute dead weight, he stumbled to a standstill as Blueberry Milk said, struggling to get each word out between pants, “I…can- hear you …thinking… from… here. Nilly.”

Hand running up and down the other cookie’s side as he carefully positioned the Fount that he might mimic his own slow, steady breaths, he finally said, trying to suppress the hint of worry, “You just…I can’t quite tell if the silver simply had an extraordinarily strong effect on you…or if you really do have so little in the way of physical reserve.”

The other cookie made a soft, unhappy sound and didn’t answer, instead trying to match his breathing.

In the end, he didn’t press. Allowed Blueberry Milk his space and his silence, and quietly helped him make it to what he had described as a ‘storage space,’ where, supposedly, he just had a sample of silver lying about. (Because why not?) In truth, he wanted to be interested in the silver. Was, in some distant way. But mostly, his attention was focused on the weakness in the cookie at his side. Helping Cremefeld was important, yes. He knew that. Intellectually, he recognized they’d wasted precious time – a little over two weeks, by his count, (although time was difficult to determine, without easy access to a calendar) – but it was difficult for anything other than concern for the cookie walking with slow, cautious steps at his side to take up residence in his mind.

It was only after he’d carefully deposited Blueberry Milk to rest on one of the myriad ‘neatly’ stacked crates and boxes in their destination that the Fount spoke again.

“…I’m Knowledge, Nilly.”

Looking up from where a careful reassessment of Blueberry Milk’s mobility had devolved into a gentle massage and the judicious application of a heating spell to over-stressed muscle and sinew, Pure Vanilla frowned slightly at the truly exhausted expression on the Fount’s face.

“…I’m not like Spice nor Salt. …Not even comparable to Sugar or Flour. We were made to be as we are. Change, Solidarity, both require an obvious amount of physical exertion. The cycle of life demands it of the former and the nature of cookies demands it of the latter. Volition and Happiness, too – those are things that need to be chased with one’s own hands. Knowledge, though? When has Knowledge truly required physicality? …only enough to complete an experiment, and even then, the strain is rarely placed upon one cookie alone. All Knowledge requires is a curious mind, a healthy amount of doubt, rigorous self-discipline, and – when one considers that magic is a derivative of Knowledge – the most magically gifted cookie to exist.”

The Fount let out a wan, tired little laugh. “It’s probably justice, though. I mean – I might be a ‘God,’ but I’m not ‘God.’ …Not truly. No matter what other cookies think.”

(After all, no cookie, no matter how powerful, how grand or how much larger than life, could ever be a Witch.)

Swallowing roughly, Pure Vanilla rose from the floor to squeeze onto the crate next to Blueberry Milk. His arms snuck around Blueberry Milk’s thin form easily, and he leaned into the Fount as the other curled into his side. He hadn’t thought himself capable of hate. He’d not even hated Shadow Milk when the cookie in his arms had tortured and destroyed him so utterly a ‘new cookie’ had risen from his shattered remains. But he was beginning to truly…hate the Witches, for what they’d done not done to Blueberry Milk.

(He was beginning to wonder. Had the Beasts paid the price – reaped the consequences – of the Witches’ actions?)

(It didn’t ring True. Not entirely. But it didn’t ring completely False, either.)

Claws, threading through his fingers, and that gentle, calming rumble he was beginning to associate with Blueberry Milk’s purring (with how his Bluebell tried to comfort him), followed by a soft, shy press of lips against his cheek.

“It’s okay, Pure Vanilla. …I’ve made do. And, well, I certainly don’t mind being the greatest mage alive. If I have to get a bit creative with my magic, sometimes, at least it’s interesting. A good challenge. ‘Necessity is the mother of invention,’ and all that.”

Swallowing, thoughts thick as he tried to find a way to express his concerns without…expressing them, Pure Vanilla finally said, “You are…brilliant and creative and strangely practical, sometimes. To come up with such a solution to a weakness – to invent a whole new kind of magic, so far beyond a normal cookie’s means and thought, it’s magnificent. Incredible. But I…worry, sometimes. Rather than to think you could strengthen yourself – with time and effort, yes, and probably much frustration – you didn’t even try. You may be…as the Witches made you. But you do not have to be. You are…so much more than you know.”

Pressing his nose into midnight-blue and silvery strands, he took in a fortifying breath and then whispered, “What if, one day, you suffer an injury so great…that your only recourse was to…float? I just…I worry that you wouldn’t even try to recover. …don’t be satisfied with the limitations the Witches gave you…just because it’s all you’ve ever known.”

The other cookie was silent for too long. Enough that he feared he’d said too much. But the claws that had wound around him as he spoke hadn’t tightened too much; just enough to make their presence known.

A soft, exhausted sigh, before the cookie in his lap said slowly, unhappily, voice thick with words unsaid, “…Truth is not something so easily changed, Pure Vanilla. You Know that.”

Pure Vanilla just shook his head firmly, and clutched tighter at the cookie in his arms. “But Truth is also not quite so static as you claim. You Know that.”

A gentle, unhappy rumble from the Fount in his arms, a protest without words, before Pure Vanilla continued, words a little more desperate than he intended, “…don’t forsake your hope, Blueberry Milk. Please.”

The other cookie just shifted to clutch at him more tightly – tail and claws both, as if that would somehow help Blueberry Milk to protect the 'hope' of which Pure Vanilla had spoken.

 ‘I cannot endure to see you fall into despair.'

***

He was beginning to realize the magnitude of whatever Truth Pure Vanilla didn’t want to tell him. It was something the healer spoke more of though his silences than his words. Something so vast, so horrifying, so damning that it filled up the empty spaces like a specter.

He didn’t want to Know.

Perhaps Pure Vanilla had the right of it. Perhaps it was delusion.

(Let the truth come when he could survive it.)

(For Pure Vanilla – he must try to avoid shattering further.)

Pure Vanilla jostled him quietly out of his thoughts. “You said you had silver here, right? Where? We should get it. …then I want to make you a more comprehensive physiotherapy guide. …any and all the exercises you could ever nee-“

The sudden, overly loud echo of cookie hands on the solid surface of his Yule-wood door.

Pure Vanilla jumped. He wanted to snicker, truly, but the echoing, familiar disembodied voices had him freezing instead. “What.”

“-wait! Get back here- you can’t just-“

“-be fine? Yeah, it’ll be fine - I mean, we know him, don’t we? Sort of? Perfectly fine to show up at a frien- um, acquaintance’s? house, unannounced…”

“Yer bein’ a coward. You suggested this. Commit to it.”

“Blue Mr Magic…Fount…Tail? Sir? We came to play! You kept the audience waiting so long, you know? Don’t you know it’s not good manners to keep an audience waiting?”

(“Why are you like this.”)

“An’…and I have so much to tell you! Grammy’s worried, she didn’t even pretend to think about agreeing- an so’s Mr Gooseberry! He wouldn’t stop lookin’ at his hands for days-“

(“Oi!”)

A moment’s silence and the sound of scuffling, followed by one more sharp knock, as Edelweiss’ voice drifted to them, sharp and clear. “Won’t you let us in? It’s been days! We’re worried!”

Then Blackcurrant. “We’ve come to help!”

Gooseberry. “As we said we would. …we’re cookies o’ our word.”

“Blue Mr Magic-Tail Cookie!”

(It was hard to act exasperated when he felt like crying.)

They came.

Chapter Text

There will be Peace when You are Done

It’s not that he had objected to going. Had known, in fact, that it was necessary. Right. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t been wary. It was only common sense. He remembered the near crushing pressure of that magical might. So, had he been a little uncomfortable at the thought of seeing Him again? Absolutely. Doubt and guilt were a Go- Witches-forsaken combination on a good day. But now? After everything?

It was easier to focus on something else. The Tower was mighty imposing, looming in front of them. (‘Spire.’ ‘Weiss had told them. ‘Be polite,’ she’d said, while Lady Smith Cookie had stared down her nose at the lot of them like one of the fabled eagles of the flatlands. He didn’t get the difference, but apparently it mattered.)

But ‘Currant had insisted on going. ‘Weiss had been embarrassed but eager. Lil’ ‘Cynth had been making an absolute nuisance of himself; as if he could annoy them all into letting him go.

(He couldn’t forget, even now – jam on his hands. It was normal jam. Just as sticky and wrong as his own, when he’d nearly crumbled his leg running from cake-wolves, all those years ago, back when ‘Currant had first found him.)

There had been a moment, long ago, where even he had dared to dream of more than a farm-hand's life.

(Magic, extending before him, there yet not, vast yet weightless – like the heath after rain - it had been so beautiful.)

Then Black Hyacinth had nearly jumped at God’s door-

The back-and-forth was honestly a bit comical, but it was so like Edelweiss and Black Hyacinth, and of course Blackcurrant had been right there with them the entire time, so he got dragged into their pace-

The door opened.

-He wouldn’t have it any other way.

***

For a moment, he almost didn’t recognize the cookies on the other side.

Pure Vanilla Cookie had looked so at ease in the simple cloth he’d worn that day in town that it was jarring to see him looking so comfortably regal, now. Robes of white and gold and a bewilderingly familiar blue gem at his breast. But he stood in that same, protective position, not quite hovering over the Fount, but close enough to support. (It was a position he knew well, watching over ‘Currant while the other watched over his sheep.)

But it was the Fount who stole the breath from his lungs. He’d thought Blueberry Milk Cookie a lordling playing at peasantry, at first. The cookie held himself too uncomfortably around them, his clothes, though simple, had been of too high quality. That wariness had shifted to welcome, when he’d thought he understood the truth (another cookie running from a God, ha!), which had become a quiet acceptance, when the other had willingly revealed his own imperfections to them.

(And then he’d been brought to bear under the full weight of God himself, had stepped back instinctively even as his hands had burned with Divine Jam…)

(He’d spent the past fortnight digging uselessly in the fields, tilling soil that struggled to support life, waiting, circling endlessly around the riddle of the cookie that stood before him now.)

The Fount seemed smaller, somehow. Certainly not as grandiose as when he’d been throwing his magic around like a physical thing. Yet it was undeniably the Fount. Those were robes they all knew, dark with gold trim, the star-and-lock at his chest. And yet. His hair didn’t wave under the weight of his magic and was instead coiled practically into a braid. His eyes bore deep, dark shadows. His cheeks were gaunt. The thinness of his wrists seemed almost unnatural, as he held the door open for them.

Somethin’s wrong.

Luckily, Black Hyacinth seemed to have no concerns about breaking the stillness of the moment. Or perhaps was simply too young to recognize it.

“Blue Mr- Fount- Magic- Tail- Cookie-Sir!” the little cookie exclaimed, and then launched himself at God like a black and violet missile.

Swallowing a curse, he lunged forward himself, trying to collar the boy but only nearly crashing into ‘Weiss instead.

Heaving a sigh, he palmed his forehead in exhaustion, as bedlam rose around them once again.

At least this time, Pure Vanilla was able to catch his companion before he fell.

***

It was overwhelming, seeing these cookies again.

(They knew him now. And were here. In his Spire. Had seen Blueberry Milk and the Fount both. Now all that was left was to learn who they were seeking.)

Had nothing truly changed?

And so, here he was, Black Hyacinth hanging off him like the boy had each time before…except this time, he definitely could not support the lad’s weight. Even using magic to keep his arms locked around the boy, to keep himself upright, while not too particularly taxing on his diminished reserves, did nothing for the way his muscles trembled with just staying upright. Thankfully, Pure Vanilla caught him as they both wobbled, and he attempted to smoothly transfer the little cookie to a magical grip once again, rather than trying to ‘support’ him with magic masquerading as strength.  

Fortunately, Black Hyacinth didn’t even seem to notice, already chattering away. “Grammy won’t admit it, but she missed you! Did you really once nearly double-bake a classroom to prove that even white magic could be destructive if your array were creative enough? Grammy said she’d never looked at light magic the same way ever again! ‘Somehow he turned an entire classroom into an Oven and to this day I have no idea how he did it-‘”

“…you did…what…” Pure Vanilla said, sounding slightly faint.

“Wait- that story was true?!”  

“Alrigh’ alrigh’, settle down! We have a task a’fore us, in case you’ all forgotten?” came Gooseberry’s blunt words, as he walked forwards to grab Black Hyacinth out of his magic and set the young cookie onto the floor.

(Something in his gut tightened, at those words.)

But then the other cookie turned considering eyes upon him, gaze assessing as he asked, point blank, “What the ‘ell happened to you?”

He barely heard the exclamations of surprise that followed. Gooseberry was staring at him, and he didn’t know how to register the expression in the other cookie’s gaze. There was caution, certainly. But he didn’t think that was condemnation? A frown slowly worked its way over the villager’s face, and his shoulders tightened, reflexively.

A hand smoothed down the tension and drew him from his stupor. Pure Vanilla stepped in easily and drew the attention away, allowing him a moment to regain his composure as pleasantries were exchanged about him.

But it was quiet, as they walked towards the more formal sitting room. Words were stilted, hushed. More unspoken questions, even as they played at normalcy. He couldn’t even pretend at a proper host, not when Pure Vanilla immediately ushered him towards one of the wing-backed chairs. He swallowed the sigh of relief that threatened to escape as he finally got off his feet; hoped the tremble in his limbs was not too obvious.

Pure Vanilla soon conjured up a small variety of teas and then pressed another warm cup of enriched milk into his hands (over a fortnight out and apparently, he was still ill enough to warrant more supplement of one of his base ingredients), and he let his eyes close as he breathed in the steam, hoping the warmth would soothe his fatigue and the sugars give him a little more energy to get through this conversation.

(But how? How to get through this conversation? Why were they here? The poison? For him? He wanted them to stay. He wanted them to go. They’d seen him, now. He didn’t know who they wanted. Who did he need to be? Could he be anyone but himself, with illness tugging at his dough? Would that be enough?)

Pure Vanilla rescued him from his thoughts when the other cookie pushed him bodily to one side of the chair, and budged in next to him. He shot a half-hearted glare at the other cookie, but his rebellious dough wasted no time curling into Pure Vanilla. Am I…being infected by his shamelessness?

A hand pat his knee; a tiny cough pulled him from his swirling thoughts and brought him back to his guests. There was Edelweiss, who’d coughed and was studiously not looking at them, color on her cheeks; Black Hyacinth who was absolutely studying them both, like they were a particularly intriguing puzzle; Blackcurrant whose head was swiveling this way and that as he ignored them entirely to observe his surroundings instead – the scant books that had migrated to this room with time – and Gooseberry…who was staring at him. Still. With that same, considering expression and furrowed brows and the impression that he missed nothing.

“What brings you here-“

“-What’s going on?”

Swallowing roughly, his eyes didn’t leave Gooseberry’s.

He sat up straighter, let Pure Vanilla’s hand at his back give him the support he needed to say, “I presume you’re here about the poisoned milk? You need not worry. I will help. You have my word.” He raised an eyebrow and added, “You can report back to your Lady – we’ve determined the cause of the contamination. We’ve only to find a way to contain the process, now.”

But Gooseberry was only frowning harder, now, waving his hand irritably as he said, “We can ferge’ abou’ that a momen’. …you look awful.”

“Goose! You can’t just say that,” came Blackcurrant’s voice, attention drawn back to their little circle, sounding scandalized.

The other just snorted irritably, staring flatly at his friend. There was a quiet shuffle where Edelweiss reached over to bring her fist down gently on Gooseberry’s head, saying, “What did we say. Be polite.”

Turning to him, she added, concern so frank on her features it couldn’t be anything else, “First; thank you for allowing us into your home. You are correct, we did come to both determine how far along you were in the research of the milk as well as offer assistance, if permitted. But,” here, her eyes darted between them, before settling on him, a troubled frown curving across her lips, “you look…unwell, my Lo- um…Mr. Fount? Sir. …in truth, you both do.”

Black Hyacinth had taken the time to creep forwards, until he was standing right before him and Pure Vanilla, before he reached out to poke one of his forearms quietly. His smile was weak in a way no child’s should be. “'…Be honest about your hurts, little one. Some lies you’re better off not telling. But don’t worry – I will always want to help you.’” It was clear Black Hyacinth was mimicking the elderly faerie cookie once again, but he didn’t have time to ponder the words too much in themselves. Not when Black Hyacinth whispered softly, “…you were shaking. I felt it. When you held me.”

With a tiny sigh, he pulled the boy close enough to hold, and didn’t protest when Black Hyacinth crawled to settle in his lap. When he could feel the tremor of quiet tears under his hands.

(It was strange, how easy it was, to fall back into old habits. After he’d been forced from the Academy, from teaching, he’d thought he’d never have need to comfort a little cookie again.)

There was a brief press of lips against his temple, and then Pure Vanilla was slipping out of the chair to give both him and Black Hyacinth some space. And yet, he didn’t feel cold. How could he, when that flickering ember behind his heart was radiating warmth-affection-pride (...longing?).

When he looked up, Edelweiss was staring at the pair of them with open relief. ‘I told you he liked you,’ she mouthed at him, a fond smile on her face. Even Gooseberry was looking a little more relaxed, while Blackcurrant had tilted his head, and was regarding the scene with a gentle expression. His smile was kind, as he said, “You must have been a very good teacher.”

Swallowing roughly, shoulders hunched like he didn’t know whether to thank the cookie or prepare for a blow, he didn’t have much chance to do either as Blackcurrent added, “…it doesn’t really matter what happened, as long as you’re okay. And I’m sure, between the two of you” looking between him and Pure Vanilla, “you are. But, I did want to know – what would you like us to call you? Teacher? Fount? Lord? Blueberry Milk Cookie?”

(He did sway, this time. When was-? Had anyone ever even-? No. Never. Not even Pure Vanilla had... He hadn’t realized. How much it would matter. To simply be asked.)

“Blue Mr Magic-Tail Cookie?” Piped up a little voice from beside him, and Black Hyacinth’s eyes were mischievous, if still a little damp.

With a playful grin of his own, he said, “You are more than welcome to keep calling me Blue Mr Magic-Tail Cookie. …It has a nice ring to, it, right?” Then, looking up at the cookies arrayed before him, eyes softening as he nodded slightly at Blackcurrant, he whispered, “…Blueberry Milk, if you please. …it’s my name.”

And there was something wondering, awed, in the faces before him. Yet, it didn’t feel like a barrier he couldn’t breach. Perhaps it was the tentative excitement in Blackcurrant’s smile, or the shyness in Edelweiss’ expression.

But it was Gooseberry, still with that considering expression, turning from staring at his hands to look directly at him who said, “Blueberry Milk Cookie…and the Foun’ o’ Knowledge, huh.”

He didn’t expect the words to sound so… right. The Truth of it to lodge so painfully in his chest. He had begun to hate Knowledge (himself) over the years. Hated how the Knowledge that should have been something beautiful had been twisted and contorted with each cookie who deceived themselves into seeking the ‘Truth’ they sought for their own ends; hated when Knowledge became the price. Began to despise the uncaring reality of little cookies who thought they could pick and choose their ‘Truths,’ as if they couldn’t see the deceits that they’d protected themselves with. (Hated himself more, as he'd understood why. As he’d done the same.)

(He couldn’t escape it. Would always begin and end with Knowledge.)

Swallowing roughly, he didn’t realize how tightly he’d dug his claws into his palms until small hands were trying to pry them open with a soft, “Blue Mr Magic-Tail Cookie?”

Jam welled from wounds in pale blue dough.

The injuries themselves were inconsequential, but he didn’t want to stain Black Hyacinth. With a quick flick of his wrist, he let a healing spell flare to life before snuffing it out so he could pat the boy’s head gently.

Eyes falling onto Gooseberry at last, he acknowledged a Truth he still could barely bring himself to voice aloud. “My name is Blueberry Milk Cookie. Knowledge.”

Gooseberry was silent a moment more, face unreadable, before he shook his head, and said, expression wry, “…you’re not quite wha’ I expected.”

(Could he try again? For Pure Vanilla? For the cookies before him? ...for himself? Reach his hand out, dare to believe that there were cookies reaching back?)

“It is easy, to carve away the parts we despise. To let the parts we do not value remain unacknowledged. …I Know that better than anyone. But it doesn’t change the Truth. No matter how we deceive ourselves that it might. I was always Cookie. I was always Divinity. I am immortal and sometimes I fear I am omniscient but I am not infallible nor omnipotent. I am still weak, I can still fail, I can still fall. I am a cookie. Just like you.”

Taking a slow, steadying breath to collect himself, he twisted a little, eyes seeking Pure Vanilla’s instinctively for – something. Reassurance? Hope?

He needn’t have looked. For, with a moment’s stillness, he realized that that tiny ember of warmth behind his heart was glowing. Pride-affection-adoration-hope washed over him like a balm. And he Knew; in this moment at least, he wasn’t alone.

His eyes sought out the other cookies’, expectant and waiting. He had done what he could – a leap of faith across a chasm he’d never have dared to cross alone. Now – to let time and fate lead; to let nature take its course.

Gooseberry, Blackcurrant and Edelweiss looked between each other in wordless communication. Even Black Hyacinth looked on in anticipation, eyes darting between them all anxiously, as they settled into solemn, expectant silence.

Then, with the beginnings of smiles on their faces – Edelweiss excited and shy, Blackcurrant eager and friendly, Gooseberry toothy and wry – they dropped into a series of clumsy curtsies and bows. It was Gooseberry who reached out his hand, saying, “Blueberry Milk Cookie, Fount of Knowledge, huh? It’s good to finally meet you.”

He struggled to his feet. They all did. Pure Vanilla came to stand at his side even as Black Hyacinth grinned widely and moved to stand with the other villagers, bobbing into a bow of his own, cheering quietly, “me too! Me too!”

Floating forwards – letting them see that – he sketched a far more practiced incline of his head, before reaching out, clawed hand grasping Gooseberry’s. His lips quirked upwards into something tiny and gentle and real. Hope curled in his chest and Pure Vanilla brushed against his side- “It’s good to finally meet you.”

(At last. Peace.)

Chapter Text

Holding Hands while the Walls come Tumbling Down

Honestly, he hadn’t thought Blackcurrant could make such a supremely unimpressed expression. The other cookie turned towards Pure Vanilla and said, commiserating, “I am so sorry. …he seems just as stupid as Gooseberry.”

“Hey-“

“-Hey!”

There was a moment where he and Gooseberry looked at each other in the same offended embarrassment before he coughed and Gooseberry turned to stare at anything but the rest of the cookies in the room. “So…ye’ said ye’ figured out the problem? In the milk.”

Latching on to the distraction wholeheartedly (and ignoring the muffled laughter from Pure Vanilla and Blackcurrant both) he nodded before opening a portal and pulling out a small cloth covered lump. “This.” Lips quirking into the barest hint of a playful smile, he tossed it at Gooseberry.

His casual use of magic had attracted four pairs of eager eyes, but that quickly shifted to the object Gooseberry was juggling in his hands. The other cookie shot him a half-hearted glare, but strangely, the expression made something glow inside him. …it reminded him of playing with Spice, or getting on Flour’s last nerve.

But he did still have a job to do, so he moved to float closer, warning, “Don’t touch it directly.”

Strong arms wrapped around his waist, halting his movement. He blinked in shock, body torn between the equally strong impulses of leaning into Pure Vanilla’s touch or jerking out of the other’s hold because he’d not done anything yet!

Pure Vanilla’s chin moving to rest on his shoulder and the worry-anxiety-fear coming from the other cookie had him sighing and leaning into the healer’s embrace, tail coiling around Pure Vanilla’s leg as he swallowed the purr already halfway up his throat. No need to reveal to everyone else just how bestial I am.

Black Hyacinth’s fingers were inching towards the silver glinting innocently in Gooseberry’s hold; he immediately wrapped the cloth in his magic to wrench the metal away from that questing hand.

“Don’t touch it.” The words were sharp; the order of a Teacher (the command of a God). Black Hyacinth straightened, startled. (Afraid?)

Hurriedly snagging the boy in his magic, he settled the young cookie on the carpet below the chair he and Pure Vanilla had occupied, moving the silver to hover before Black Hyacinth so that the other could examine it without touching. While the other villagers followed suit, coming to sit in a rough circle before him and Pure Vanilla, he focused instead on reaching out and patting Black Hyacinth’s fluffy curls a few times in the face of that subdued expression.

“I’m not angry,” He started, and then added, uncomfortably, “and forgive me for raising my voice.” (Maybe it had been a fluke, knowing what to do with a crying child, before.) “It’s just…dangerous. While brief direct physical contact would not be a problem for most cookies, it doesn’t negate the fact that any who touch it directly would absorb trace amounts of the metal into their internal magical circuit. Which would undoubtedly be a problem for a growing cookie…never mind one with a budding magical affinity.”

“Magical affinity?!” Black Hyacinth said, shooting upwards and grinning widely, former disquiet forgotten. He raised his hand and waved it eagerly. “Oh! What kind? What kind?? Something super exciting, right? Ooooh – could it be like yours? The way you hid your tail? Can you teach me?” The boy trailed off into something that might have been a maniacal giggle on an older cookie.

“Wait- waitwatwait- you can’t just- ‘Cynth, if you think for one moment I’m letting you learn illusion magic, of all things-“ Edelweiss’ protest had come high and fast.

“What? Why? You like Blue Mr Magic-Tail Cookie, too, right-”

“-there’s no way I’m letting you learn magic from the Fount of Knowledge without me!”

“AH-HAH! And see what we have here, gentle-cookies? A prime example of a jealous cookie in its natural habitat!” Black Hyacinth swung to face him directly. “You’ll teach only me, right?”

“Absolutely not!” Edelweiss cut over Black Hyacinth, adding, “’Cynth’s already a terror with his little pranks and ‘narrations.’ You have to teach me too, okay! …for your sanity’s sake!”

Then, Blackcurrant’s voice, overly casual in a way that belied eagerness. “You know…if you’re offering magic lessons…”

Eyes wide as Pure Vanilla had the gall to hide a laugh in his shoulder, he made a sound not unlike a kettle leaking steam, utterly dumbfounded.

Gooseberry leaned over to smack Blackcurrant upside the head, grumbling, “Can ye’ a’ least hide yer aspirations until after we’ dealt wi’ the milk problem?”

After confirming that his companions all looked suitably chagrined, Gooseberry turned back to him with a wry smile that slowly morphed into something embarrassed as he said, eyes drifting away from him as the other cookie scratched at his cheek, “Don’ mind ‘em. Magic’s jus’ …neat.”

Him too?!

Pure Vanilla was laughing again, hand sliding up and down idly over his chest in a soothing gesture as fond affection-amusement-encouragement-pride coiled in the space behind his heart. He was drowning in that warmth – all of it, there was so much – these cookies that wanted him (all of him – Fount and Cookie both); treated him like a normal cookie - engaged with him like he was already one of them – his hope, his salvation, wrapped around him and secreted away his heart – he was so warm.

(He couldn’t stop the soft, happy rumble that erupted out of him even if he tried.)

***

Blue Mr Magic-Tail Cookie really is a cat!

Giggling softly as he tried to hide his smile, he glanced up at Big Sis because he just knew that she’d- Yup! She was grinning too, in that way she had where she covered her mouth with her entire hand, pretending to be a politer, more stuck-up cookie.

We have to tell Grammy! She’d love this! …and then maybe we can get Teacher to come and play with us more often! Everyone loves cats, after all! Which meant…he needed to get more information. For the sake of the story-to-be-told, of course.

So, clambering up into Teacher’s lap, he sneakily leaned backwards against the other cookie’s chest (to get more practical experience with the constant vibration – ‘it’s the little details that help you better tell your story, dear’ – while he said in distraction, “So, what is it, then, Blue Mr Magic-Tail Cookie?”

Surreptitiously sticking his tongue out at Sis – you snooze, you lose! – he slyly inspected the claws that had automatically curved around him as he’d settled against Teacher’s chest. (Or maybe not so slyly. He steadfastly ignored the way those hands went too still at his inspection.)

But the relaxing rumble had all but stopped when he’d first reached for Teacher’s hands, and there was a strange sort of tension in the air, and that was no good. So, he tapped one blue-grey-tipped claw, and said, head tilting backwards to peer into mismatched eyes, “I like the black! Much better than the grey.” He grinned up at Teacher, pointing at his own black curls. “Like me!”

These smiles were definitely the best – the ones that looked happy, amused, and a little defeated all at once. And Teacher wore one such smile well; fang glinting through his crooked grin like he was holding in a laugh. Just like Grammy when he said something particularly clever during his narrating, or pulled a truly genius prank.

“Yes, just like you,” Teacher said, rumbling beginning to pick back up as another set of cookie hands appeared from behind Teacher, before Teacher’s Keeper twined his hand through Teacher’s own. Huh. Teacher’s actually kinda small, isn’t he.

“Much better than this silver, definitely,” Teacher’s Keeper added, before carefully pulling one of Teacher’s hands away. (He pouted, just a little; he hadn’t been done looking!) But then, Teacher’s Keeper added, in exactly the same tone of voice that Big Sis used when she was trying to scold him for a brilliant prank but couldn’t deny the success, “This,” Keeper held up Teacher’s silver-tipped claws in example, “is one of the early symptoms of silver toxicity. …which is why we don’t go ingesting foreign substances without a second thought.”

There was a sharp sound of displaced air, like when one of the butter cats whipped their tail around so very fast. Then, he could hear Teacher’s Keeper make a muffled noise of pain, and Big Sis turned away in a poor attempt at hiding a smile, while Mr Currant didn’t attempt at hiding his smile at all and Mr Goose went stone faced which meant he was hiding a laugh. But really, it wasn’t fair if he couldn’t play, too, so he reached out to snag the claw hanging in the air, brushing curiously against the rough edges.

“…silver?” He asked, testing out the word. It didn’t sound like any sort of ingredient he was familiar with. Teacher sighed, and there was a moment of stillness that spoke just as loudly as whatever the grown-ups were trying to say. Twisting, he looked at Teacher, who was frowning down at the little bundle of silver colored…silver…with a blank expression.

“It’s a metal,” Teacher explained at last, before adding. “Like Gold?” Teacher’s eyes darted down to his, before looking out at Big Sis and Mr Currant and Mr Goose. Big Sis was nodding like she understood, and so was Mr Goose, actually. He tilted his head, torn between being upset that Big Sis knew…and latching on to the interesting fact that Mr Goose knew, as well. So, he tried to hide his interest by straightening and sitting up properly instead. He could smell a story!

A clawed hand ruffled his hair (he swatted at it; why did everyone mess up his hair?!) and he pouted, because clearly, he wasn’t hiding very well from Teacher.

“Gold is another metal, often used by mages and wizards to strengthen and support a magical working. One of the most common applications is in plating or filigree on a staff – it helps with the conduction and focus of magic. Another example might be to plate a permanent array in gold leaf – to streamline the flow of magic within the circle, or to reduce the initial magical cost inherent into such a working. Silver is…similar. Except its properties extend in the opposite direction – it separates and isolates, and thus has less practical application. …the main way I could conceive of using it would be plating a large sealing array in silver. …because anything else – to expose another cookie to silver, so uncaring – it would be-“ A thin shudder worked its way up Teacher’s spine, and he fell silent, staring at his hands.

Frowning, worried but wanting to make Teacher smile again, he reached out and then froze, shocked when Teacher’s Keeper pulled Teacher (and him) closer. …he’d forgotten Keeper was there, until the other cookie’s arms tightened drastically around the other, and Teacher was patting at the hand clutched tightly against his robes, whispering softly, “Nilly…”

“But…but it’s already in- what…what do we do about it, then?” Mr Currant sounded slightly off, somehow, like he was…scared. But Mr Goose had always been good at making Mr Current happy, and this was no exception. In fact- he swallowed and slipped off of Teacher to curl up against Big Sis’ side. He’d only seen that expression on her face twice before. First with Pappy, and then Auntie Apple Blossom and Uncle Toffee had stopped visiting, just like Ma and Mama.  (Gone- they were gone- and then it was just him, Grammy, ‘Weiss and itty-bitty Caramel Apple-).

Teacher’s purring picked up again, and he was patting his Keeper’s hand, but it was to them that he spoke. “You will be fine.” His eyes widened in shock. Teacher sounded like Grammy (or Grammy sounded like Teacher?). Filled with absolute, unbreakable uncertainty. …it was hard to be afraid, when God was on your side.

Big Sis straightened next to him, and he didn’t protest when she held him a bit tighter. Mr Currant and Mr Goose were both looking at Teacher expectantly.

“Now that we’ve identified the source of the contamination, I’ve been contemplating the best way to remove it from the milk supply; or at least remove the immediate threat of ingesting contaminated milk.” He gestured to the innocuous cloth-covered bundle, and added, “This is elemental silver. That means its existence is the purest form of silver, and I should be able to craft an array with the elemental silver as an anchor, which would theoretically be able to attract and thus remove the impure silver particulate matter from the milk, perhaps even the earth …although that would take some more rigorous testing.  We could at least make some smaller arrays so that you all could feel comfortable of the cleanliness of your drinking-milk and your irrigation and soda water…stopping this entirely will require determining the actual source-“

(Oh. Safe. They were going to be safe. Blue Mr Mag- Mr Foun- Teach- God- Blueberry Milk Cookie was going to save them.)

He barreled into the other cookie, shaking. Maybe he’d been a… little worried… after all.

***

He didn’t think he’d ever seen the Spire this…crowded.

Which was all well and good, of course. Blueberry Milk needed company. Needed someone to be there to pull him out of his own head, to remind him that he was allowed to be a cookie as much as he was a God. (That he was more than just the corrupted remains of shattered Divinity.)

But.

His Fount was also recovering from an illness that would have crumbled a lesser cookie. Still couldn’t walk, half the time. Still devolved into wet, hacking coughs after too much exertion. (His voice was ragged and caught on words in a way that was frightfully familiar, even as care and being force-fed nutrient-rich milk seemed to smooth Blueberry Milk back out into the gentle tenor he’d become accustomed to.)

Really, it was taking all of his experience of herding willful sheep and cookies both to try and corral the Fount into caring for himself even slightly.

He was going to need to apologize to his friends, one day. For all the pain his own willful self-sacrifice had caused them.

At least he had allies. While Gooseberry preferred to run himself ragged with activity – currently ferrying contaminated milk and soil (and even one each of a cream and cotton candy sheep) back and forth between Cremefeld and the Spire – Blackcurrant was more than happy to help him shepherd the Fount (and Gooseberry, when the other inevitably collapsed, as well) between work, bed and meals.

Soon, even more cookies were showing up with food – pies, jellies, jams, berries, preserves, fresh bread and a few precious bundles of wheat. (Blueberry Milk had tried to refuse, at first. Had been stricken with a strange medley of loneliness-disappointment-agony-horror that had echoed to him though the connection forged between their Soul Jams. He hadn’t understood it at all, but at least it only lasted until Edelweiss came to accept the offerings gratefully, and then bullied Blueberry Milk into eating something, because if he fainted, she’d never forgive him, because he’d make Black Hyacinth sad-)

So, they’d fallen into a chaotic pattern, all orbiting Blueberry Milk – inevitable. The Fount was their center – their beginning – their ending – their conductor. The Fount – both more and less than a cookie – impossible and brilliant and ancient – magic and ideas and Knowledge suspended around them like a physical thing – it was easy to understand why so many cookies had worshiped the Virtues as Gods.

And yet, it was the moments in-between that he cherished the most. The way Blueberry Milk ran away from his daily physiotherapy, until Black Hyacinth joined them and they somehow made a game of it. The way he and Blackcurrant traded tips on bullying unreasonably stubborn cookies into taking breaks and then how they both somehow got dragged into discussions about magic and healing or on agriculture and shepherding by their counterparts. The genuine fear-of-the-Witches Edelweiss somehow managed to instill into all of them, ensuring that they ate.

(The way Blueberry Milk still hadn’t retreated to his own chambers, now that the worst of his illness was behind them. Instead, he woke up each morning to the soft, contented rumbling of his other half sprawled out across his chest, legs and tail tangled amongst his own limbs.)

***

“Done. It’s done.” Blueberry Milk whispered as he staggered upright.

He didn’t register the meaning of the words, at first; too engrossed in his own rapid-fire report of the affected sheep’s symptoms and diagnostic data concerning the sliver-tainted milk as Blackcurrant took over the endless scribbling of notes that Gooseberry had started recording for him. Gooseberry, on the other hand, spent his break working out the cramping in his hand by preparing the next batch of inks and charcoal and chalk sticks and quills and parchment and everything else one might need for the chaotic mess the magic laboratory had devolved into.

“Wait- what?!”

There was the shuffle of too many pairs of feet and then Black Hyacinth was dropping the magical primer he’d been combing over to worm under Blueberry Milk’s arm as the cookie nearly collapsed onto the various papers spread over the floor.

“It’s a layered array! Oh, I’ve been so stupid-“

“Bluebell- sit down before you fall and injure yourself more-“

“No, no – this is amazing, Nilla! A triple layered array – interlocking and funneling the silver inwards and the purified milk outwards – because milk’s colloidal – this silver is colloidal – it should work on anything that has the same basic chemical properties as milk – any colloid – with minimal adjustments because I’ve written the array based on the theoretical principle-“

“…wait. Triple layered?! Principle?? What does that even-? Let me see that- But- How- that’s not-? That’s not…possible. You know that, right? Right?! Witches above, do you just…go around inventing new magics for breakfast?!“

“Ah, Master Vanilla, I know this is exciting…but we talked about this. Let us get Master Blueberry to please just sit down first-“

“Ah- eheh, you’re right. Whoops. Bluebell-“

“What, no we still need to-“

“What you need to do, Lord Fount, is sit down and drink your milk-“

“Eh?? Ah, um, I, really, that’s quite alright-“

“I told you, Teacher, you need to stop resisting- it will only make her worse-“

“AHEM.” A cough. “Can we jus’ …test this firs’? An’ be done wi’t?”

The resultant silence echoed sharply in the wake of the unbridled chaos from before. But slowly, they were all able to concede the point (they had a purpose, after all). So, it was with a barely repressed tremor of excitement that the small band of cookies awaited the moment of judgement with bated breath.

Then, Blueberry Milk’s magic, expanding outwards in an array so intricate, so beautiful, spinning and rotating like a galaxy itself about the elemental silver sitting innocuously at the center. And then – tiny droplets of milk tracing the circle of the array, spinning ever faster, orbiting the silver inexorably. Until, the milk within the pail itself was left a familiar faint white (the most beautiful color it could ever be, in that moment) and the silver shard at the center of the tiny cosmos glowed and grew in size, as the silver within the milk returned to its truest form.

He caught Blueberry Milk before the other could fall, feet moving faster than conscious thought as his beholder clattered to the floor beside him. The other cookie was breathing heavily and trembling softly. “D-did-“

Easily swinging the Fount into his arms, he tucked the cookie against his chest as he held one hand over the pail of pristine white milk in a simple diagnostic spell.

“Yes,” he breathed, awed. “Yes, Bluebell. You did it. You did it. My dear, dear Blueberry Milk – oh – My Fount – I am so, so proud of you-“

The Fount made a bizarre sound of happiness as he simultaneously purred and giggled deliriously even as he rubbed his scarred cheek against his neck (truly like a cat).

“Good. Good- ‘m gonna rest now, if you please-“

(He was crying. He didn’t know why, but he was crying.)

“Yes, love. I’ll be here.”

(But Blueberry Milk was already asleep.)

Chapter Text

Can I be Known and Loved?

It was probably unforgivable, how much he’d been sleeping, recently. He didn’t need to rest. He knew that. Had always been swamped by guilt and the vague feeling that he was committing some sort of mortal sin those few times he hadn’t been able to stop his mind from unfocusing after a particularly grueling project or taxing meeting. But the corruption had done something to his already frail dough – and the silver poisoning had made it worse.

Or maybe he was just giving in to his more base urges.

Regardless, he couldn’t bring himself to mind, too much. Especially if this is what sleep truly meant; safety and warmth as he was tucked securely into Pure Vanilla’s embrace, surrounded by the scent of home and the pleasant haze of hands in his hair, or tracing over his ear, or running up and down his back, or (best of all) scratching at the fur at the base of his tail.

(Maybe it wasn’t so bad, having a tail.)

Frustratingly, Pure Vanilla always seemed to know when he awoke, somehow. So, he couldn’t pretend to be asleep for a few minutes more and just…bask in his other half’s touch.

Pure Vanilla’s hands paused a moment in their relaxing combing through his hair, but they thankfully started back up again at his quiet, unhappy whine.

“You know,” Pure Vanilla started softly, “I never considered myself a cat-cookie. Not until I met you.”

It took him longer than it should have to parse that into meaning, but he did. (He always would. He would never not attend to this cookie’s actions and words.) Blinking his eyes open in bleary consternation, his first thought was a slightly irritable, 'I should bite you.' Thankfully, some instinct had him not playing into the trope so overtly; so he growled and glared instead, saying petulantly, “Rude. I’m so much more than some pathetic cat.”

Pure Vanilla had the gall to laugh at him, and then actually reached out to scratch under his chin and- oh dear- that was- when his mind returned to him, he was both mortified and unsurprised to find that he was purring far louder than any other cat he’d ever met.

“I’m beginning to think you just like me this way,” he mumbled, splaying himself out limply over the healer.

Laughing softly, Pure Vanilla held him closer, and didn’t even have the decency to outright deny it. “Probably.” Then, “I’ve begun to wonder if you haven’t always been like this. …when you’re not hiding.”

Shrugging uncomfortably and nuzzling deeper into Pure Vanilla’s warmth as a sudden chill passed through his dough, he confessed, “Perhaps. …I’ve always had claws and fangs. …I’m uncertain about the purring. No one’s ever…”

Pure Vanilla’s fingers drifted gently over a loop of soft fur and corded muscle in silent question and he shuddered and whispered (answer and nonanswer both), “I was supposed to be perfect. We all were. Perfect, normal cookies.”

(He didn’t want to think about this. Didn’t want to think on all the ways he was wrong, all the ways he’d carved himself into tiny palatable Truths from the very beginning-)

Casting about for something, anything else, he asked, “The…milk. What happened? After I…ah…”

Sighing, Pure Vanilla at least had the courtesy to allow him the diversion. “Don’t worry. I’ve taken care of most of the logistics. The others have returned to Cremefeld for now, so that they can identify the most urgent places in need of the array. Milk wells, irrigation works, the like. Possibly even an actual source of the contamination, if they can find it. It won’t be a permanent fix, of course, but at the moment…”

Groaning at the reminder that this problem was still only half fixed (and how much more arduous attending to the second half - dealing with the source - would likely be), he rolled off of Pure Vanilla, scrubbing at his face tiredly. He suddenly felt dreadfully fatigued all over again.

“Bluebell?” Pure Vanilla asked in soft concern, as the other cookie moved to hover over him. Swallowing thickly, he reached out to tuck strands of gold behind one rounded ear, even as heat crept into his cheeks (and awe, into his heart) at the way Pure Vanilla held his claw close enough to graze his lips over the ruined dough as adoration-not-his flared to life in the hollow behind his heart.

Right. That’s…another thing.

Sitting up slowly, relieved that the effort required was less than it’d been before, and didn’t set him off into a ragged series of coughs, he leaned into Pure Vanilla as the other cookie settled next to him. Quietly twining their fingers together, spending a moment appreciating the way cool blue-black (silver) melded so perfectly into warm tan, he finally forced himself to say, “So. Um. I’m not sure how to say this without sounding…mad. But. Well. Have you…been feeling anything…odd, recently?”

The fingers that had been idly tracing over the shape of his claws froze at the question. “…odd?” Pure Vanilla asked, voice halting.

Unable to suppress the slightly manic laugh, he said, “Yes. Well, you know! Feelings! Sensations! …emotions-not-mine! …so to speak.”

“…Oh.” Pure Vanilla said, sounding a little anxious himself even as his hand curved protectively over the blue gem at his heart, “I, yes, well, ah- hmm. It, um, it got rather more…obvious…after you first examined my Soul Jam.”

It was hard, to hear those words. (Hope-and-terror rising within him in equal measure.) With shaking hands, he ripped open a rift with his claws, ragged edges and twisting dizzily, something that the eyes slid off of, wrong-impossible-right-there all at once. Then, he dumped Knowledge into Pure Vanilla’s hands before he could think better of it.

“Bluebell…?” Pure Vanilla said, soft and a little faint, attention riveted on the Soul Jam in his grasp. It glinted softly, glowing with an inner light.

(He shuddered. This was so, so much more than Pure Vanilla’s hands at the base of his tail. All he could feel was Pure Vanilla’s warmth, his heat; like his better half had touched every part of him, was within him, was touching the most sacred, secret recess of his soul-)

(He was.)

Then Pure Vanilla did – something – nothing (EVERYTHING-ALL-AT-ONCE) –

(He fainted.)

***

It was not…his finest moment.

In his defense, however, the panic felt completely justified. Blueberry Milk and his self-destructive habits had been trying his patience for days, after all.

(He’d barely even done anything. Just pulsed a tiny bit of magic through the other’s Soul Jam. It had been reflexive. Curiosity. Really! The Fount had done the same to him, after all!)

And then the other cookie had gone rigid – the Soul Jam in question had glowed and gone supernova – and then the Fount had tipped over in a dead faint, eyes open but unseeing and the strangest echo of feelings-sensations -not-his rocketing through him.

So, of course, he’d panicked. (And maybe slapped Blueberry Milk a few times to try and get the other to wake. Up.)

“Bluebell. Bluebell! BLUEBERRY MILK COOKIE!” Shaking the other cookie by the loose collar of his nightshirt, he at least didn’t smack the Fount again, but he did end up hauling the other cookie bodily into his lap, reflexively pulling up a diagnostic spell to better examine the other.

Unfortunately, Blueberry Milk was lit up like a magical beacon under his spell, and just looking at the other cookie was giving him a migraine and somehow also bringing heat to his cheeks (some things were better left alone)-

In the end, he chose to wait, hand moving spasmodically between Blueberry Milk’s hair, under his nose, his pulse-point, the rise of his chest. He’s here. He’s here. He’s still with me.

A low moan had them both shifting uncomfortably, before he carded sweat-damp locks from Blueberry Milk’s brow. “…Bluebell?”

Awareness slowly returned to the other cookie in a stutter of breath, the sounds of a shifting tail, the curling of long midnight blue and silver locks around his fingers. “…Nilla?” Blueberry Milk’s voice was even more hoarse than usual, to his ears.

“’m here, Bluebell,” he murmured, tracing over the splotch of grey that was Algiz on the Fount’s brow.

“Wha…what…happened?”

Pure Vanilla stuttered as his mind stalled to a halt. …he had no idea how to even begin explaining…whatever that had been.

However, it didn’t seem like he needed to, if the sudden heat radiating from Blueberry Milk’s cheeks were any indication. There was a sudden deluge of shock-embarrassment-shame-yearning as the other cookie ripped himself away from him, shooting upright. Or trying to, as the Fount swayed almost immediately and then pitched forwards again, before he caught the cookie again in his embrace. ...That really is a fetching shade of blue, isn’t it.

Hand smoothing along the other cookie’s side, he pressed his lips to Blueberry Milk’s hair, before gently wrapping the Fount’s tail around them both, and then sighing as the smaller cookie relaxed in his hold. “Are you alright?” He asked gently.

Despite the fine tremble still shuddering through the other cookie, he still nodded shallowly. Playing with Blueberry Milk’s hair, he contemplated a moment, before saying, somewhat humorously, “…that seemed…rather more intense…than when you pulsed magic through my Soul Jam?”

A soft growl that was half a groan. “…I’m assuming you don’t actually take the phrase ‘Soul Jam’ literally, do you.”

It took…an embarrassingly long time to understand exactly what Blueberry Milk meant by that. Urgently taking ahold of the other cookie’s shoulders as he bodily pushed the Fount away enough that he might get a good view of the other cookie’s face, vanilla beholder trained on the scholar, he gaped at the sight of deep indigo painting Blueberry Milk’s face from cheeks to the tips of his ears. Those beautiful cyan-and-cobalt eyes still looked slightly dazed and one fang was peeking out from where the other was biting his lip gently-

Choking, mind blanking, he hid that too-fetching face away against his dough and tried to still his racing pulse. “Um. Literally. You said. Literally?”

A soft sigh; bemusement-fondness-tenderness-embarrassment. Lips, pressing deliberately against his pulse point in time with a tail running up and down his back in a soothing, repetitive gesture. “I am Knowledge.” Blueberry Milk said gently, as if that explained anything.

It explained everything.

After a moment, Blueberry Milk tried again. “You were born to understand Truth. Born to chase it, to bear its cost and consequence. Truth is…part of your identity, but not the only part, yes?” At his agreeing nod, the Fount said again, “I am Truth. I am Deceit. I am the Knowledge that binds them both together” With a tiny, mischievous smile pressed against his neck, the Fount added, “You’ve always carried a little piece of me with you. …you’ve made it your own. Found your own Truth, but it was still me, before it became yours.”

It…the thought of that was…mind boggling. Numbing, a little. Brought to mind Shadow Milk’s shadow-plays – the way the other cookie had tried to insert himself (his pain, his despair, his suffering) into some of his most precious memories, warping them until they were unrecognizable reflections. And…spoke to him…as if he were…the Light of Truth?

Pushing the other cookie away gently, Pure Vanilla tapped his Soul Jam in utter confusion, saying, “Just a moment. You’re saying…this is you? Or your…a piece of your…Wait. Of your soul?!”

Tilting his head as a frown snuck across his features, Blueberry Milk tapped the Soul Jam gently, before wordlessly unclasping the Light of Truth from his robes and holding it beside his own Light of Knowledge. With a hesitant, worried little smile, he then gently deposited both Soul Jams in Pure Vanilla’s grasp, as soft confusion-worry-anxiety trickled into the healer’s awareness across their bond.

“It’s not like…I’m walking around with half-a-soul, Nilly. That’d be…absurd.” Blueberry Milk said quietly. Reaching for another analogy, he added, “It’s derivative. Like a mathematical derivative.” Face twisting in distaste, he added, “I mean, putting aside the actual…mathematical derivative. It’s just…something that exists separately from but ultimately dependent upon its source. Two complete, fundamentally independent yet inherently interconnected entities. …why are we debating the ontological nature of Soul Jams…?”

Shaking his head, Blueberry Milk said earnestly, smiling that crooked, fanged grin, “All I mean is that Truth comes from Knowledge. It’s still your Truth. Just as my Truth is still here, in me.” He tapped his own Soul Jam gently. “I can neither take the Light of Truth from you, nor affect it, not really. …just make you think I’ve done so. …because that is the nature of Deceit.” Shrugging slightly, he added, “All change to your Soul Jam must necessarily come from you.”

He…didn’t understand. Not really. Not when the tricks of this brilliant cookie’s future-past were still rattling around in his head. But…that didn’t really matter, did it? Because, all it came down to, truly, was-

“Alright. …I don’t really get it, but, alright. I mean, regardless of whether it’s you or me, yours or mine…all I need to do is…trust you, right? And I do. Witches above, but I do.”

Happiness. No – more than that – sparkling, bubbling, effervescent joy flowed through their bond, and the cookie in his lap wrapped his arms around him, nuzzling and purring happily as he tucked himself into Pure Vanilla’s chest.

“Thank you.”

***

He’d recognized that the Fount’s hair was beautiful. A reflection of the cookie himself – a vast and ancient cosmos condensed down into a single point – it was impossible to look away. Impossible to not be moved by curls that were studded by tiny pinpricks of light, unruly strands that moved under the pressure of the Fount’s excess mana as if waving in some sort of cosmic wind.

But even the imperfections were beautiful.

Slowly detangling the long strands, he watched as one of the voids in Blueberry Milk’s hair flickered to life as an Eye opened, only to take note of him watching, and then shyly clamp shut. When he brushed through the affected strands, he didn’t catch on the Eye, or magic. Just…hair. (That didn’t want to let go of him, perhaps, but really, that was the only oddity.)

But that made him think of his own Eyes – the ones hidden in his robes, if not his person. The one’s he’d opened only twice, what felt like a lifetime ago, first in an empty field and then again, just before he’d collapsed under the weight of the existence of the cookie before him.

Brush stilling, his attention drifted towards another void that soon flickered to life, blinking open lethargically. For a tiny, silent moment, his vanilla beholder and Blueberry Milk’s hair stared at each other. Then slowly, he reached out to brush against the Eye softly, watching as the lid fluttered shut.

The contentment that had been radiating from the other cookie slowly morphed into relaxation -hesitation-question, and really, it probably was odd that they could communicate in this way. Letting himself linger on the unbridled adoration he felt for the cookie before him – strange magical hair included – he smiled as Blueberry Milk relaxed against him, something wry and a little self-deprecating brushing against his heart. Humming, he allowed himself to truly feel the breadth of his own wonder-awe at his companion a moment in response, before he asked, “What are these, eyes, exactly? …I’d never met another cookie with such eyes other than you…until I developed them too, of course.”

Somehow, he wasn’t surprised when the Fount’s Eyes flickered open, one by one. Some blinked sleepily, shutting again; others narrowed, assessing. Blueberry Milk’s expression was just a little too blank, in the mirror, but it was the discomfort-shame-uncertainty that had him wrapping his arms around the other cookie in a protective embrace.

Claw rising unbidden to brush against the scarring on his face, Blueberry Milk said uncomfortably, “We both know I’ve been corrupted, Nilly.”

With gentle acceptance, Pure Vanilla simply hummed, before tilting the other cookie’s head back to press a soft kiss to Blueberry Milk’s corrupted cyan eye. “I know.” He grinned down at the slight hint of color on the other’s cheeks, the fond shyness flickering down their bond, the hesitant brush of fur against his calf.

Huffing softly, the Fount slid off the chair like he was made of liquid, before patting the space beside him. Doing as he was bid, Pure Vanilla wasn’t all that surprised when the other cookie clambered into his lap unrepentantly, flashing a fanged grin when he elbowed Pure Vanilla in the abdomen.

“You do realize I’m not a chair,” Pure Vanilla said dryly, arms wrapping around the other’s waist.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is the very definition of a comfy chair,” Blueberry Milk replied, settling down a moment before adding, “And if you’re going to make me talk about this, I’m going to be comfortable doing it.”

“You don’t have to-“

“I, I Know, Nilly.” The other cookie twisted to look up at him, claws coming to rest over his own hands at Blueberry Milk’s waist, tail twining between their legs. Swallowing roughly, the Fount continued, “You’re…the only cookie who has ever asked me a question without simultaneously demanding your answer. And for that- for that I would give you any answer you desire.” The Fount was a confusing mishmash of irritable-exhausted-lonely-shy-hopeful, but the words alone had him pressing another soft kiss to Blueberry Milk’s head.

Relaxing as he sighed and leaned back into Pure Vanilla’s chest, Blueberry Milk continued, “corruption can take many forms. In truth, it takes the form best ‘suited’ to the bearer.” There was a rumbling unhappiness in Blueberry Milk’s tone, but it was the agonized-despair that ricocheted between their souls that made the implication of ‘best suited’ – that permanent reminder of failure, of degradation, of despair – much more clear.

“I’ve always had these Eyes. For as long as I can remember – the very beginning.” Blueberry Milk continued quietly. “They were there, if ever shut. I could even force them open, see with them, if I wished. I…never did that in the beginning. Had no need to. They…the Eyes regard Knowledge, Nilly. It was…only as things got…well, one might say I stopped being ‘blinded’ by the Truth. I saw…cookies. Ugly, wretched little cookies. How they cared so little for Knowledge, for Truth, deceived each other, deceived themselves. Cookies…don’t care about things like Truth – about reality. Not really. They care about getting what they want, about protecting their little piece of the world, and they don’t care who they hurt, or curse, or condemn in the process. Because, Witches forbid anyone might try and point out their contradictions, their selfishness, the ‘emotions’ they take for ‘truths.’ What was…the point of it all? Trying to reach out to them, trying to show them a better way, carving myself up into fragments, making myself ‘perfect,’ palatable, out of some stupid, pathetic hope they’d listen? They’d never listen. There was no point. And, once my eyes were opened to that…I couldn’t stop seeing.”

Tail curling painfully tightly around Pure Vanilla’s leg, Blueberry Milk’s lips twisted into a rictus grin. “And, if they could do that – they didn’t care about Truth and Deceit and Knowledge, just about how they could use it – why couldn’t I? Why can’t I?

“So I…started experimenting. Asking questions I knew I shouldn’t. Researching magic – creating magic – that I Knew I was forbidden to touch. And I was a hypocrite – I Knew that – but I told myself it was fine. I didn’t care. That none of this mattered – the Truth didn’t matter – until – by the time I’d come to realize –“ a riptide of fear-regret-despair-self-loathing from the cookie in his lap. Claws, clinging desperately to him; as if that alone was all that was keeping him here, in the present. “It was already too late.”

Chapter Text

I don’t think I could stand to be (where you don’t see me)

Of course, he had wondered at the Fount’s downfall. The moment he had seen that particular scar on Blueberry Milk’s face, had finally begun to Know the cookie in his arms (‘you know NOTHING! You are …NOTHING’), he’d wanted – no needed – to know, if only that he might do something, anything, to save this lonely, broken cookie who had given up on himself so long ago. (But was still so kind. So brave. Who still had so much goodness left in him, if he only dared to believe in it.)

(For he finally understood this cookie before him: The Beast-who-Hoped. Deceit was as integral to Knowledge as Truth. Blueberry Milk had been lying from the very beginning.)

And yet, Blueberry Milk clutched at him with such raw desperation, as if he were grasping at the only real, True thing in his reach.

(What to do, when instinct touched upon a terrifying truth? That he was Blueberry Milk’s Hope?)

(Bear it. He would bear it. Bear the weight of being another cookie’s hope, and the prickle of unease that Truth lodged in his heart. Just as he bore the sin of his silence.)

(For he could not endure it. To tell Blueberry Milk the truth of Shadow Milk – to snuff out his Beast’s hope with his own two hands – to shatter this tiny, fragile peace – it could not be born. Better to simply sacrifice Truth himself that he might change the fates’ design rather than admit the Truth now. What if he spoke it into existence? What if to tell was to dance upon Fate’s palm? Surely it meant something that he’d only come here after Shadow Blueberry Milk had opened his eyes to the wretched, ugly Truth of this world. And he too bore the price of that Knowledge.)

It felt like instinct, the way his eyes drifted open. And then, slowly, within the hem of his robes, one Eye followed suit, squinting, fluttering, pupil trembling, tearing up, skittering away but ever back; even as he ignored the lancing throb of agony that came with staring directly into the heart of a dying star.

And, for a moment, he Saw. Saw Blueberry Milk, whose hair was looking back. Saw the Fount – the Beast – the God – the Cookie. Knowledge. His beloved, who was holding himself together with nothing more than a hope and a prayer in the shape of the only cookie who’d ever been compassionate enough to accept it all.

***

Fiddling with the hem of his cloak before his claws moved to tap gently against the six-pointed star at his throat, he waited quietly for Pure Vanilla. He’d gone for something a little more formal, today. Not quite the casual elegance of the colorful, fur-lined robes-and-cloaks he’d typically worn while working at the academy; certainly not the simple robes or hose-and-tunic he preferred when within the relative safety of the Spire. No. This required something of a more…official capacity.

Cremefeld had requested the aid of the Fount of Knowledge, after all.

(And if this felt somewhat like a test (for himself or the villagers, he didn’t know) and putting armor on, well, that was neither here nor there.)

The steady tap-tap of the vanilla beholder descending the stairs in time with Pure Vanilla had his head snapping up and his feet back on solid ground. Pure Vanilla looked stunning. But then again, he always did. Awash in white and gold, blue Soul Jam pinned fearlessly to his chest, he looked holy. (Perhaps this was the true difference between God Witch and ‘a God’ Virtue.)

(And far more Divine than Blueberry Milk could ever pretend to be.)

Maybe that was why it was so very jarring when Pure Vanilla himself stilled upon the very last stair, foot hovering in midair, frozen. Hesitant and concerned, he pulled away from where he had been reclining against one shadowed wall of the Spire, drawn to the other cookie as inexorably as gravity. “Nilly?” He asked softly, mind darting back to all the frightfully personal information he’d shared with the other over the past few hours (his connection to the Soul Jam, the truth behind his Eyes, that mortifying reaction when Pure Vanilla had pulsed magic through his own Soul Jam-)

His own thoughts collapsed into emptiness when he was suddenly inundated by a flood of shock-awe-adoration-reverence that stole his breath away.

“My Lord Fount,” Pure Vanilla breathed before stumbling down the last step and over to him hastily.

He wanted to brush off the phrase. Chide the other – he had a name, and Pure Vanilla would do well to use it – but it hadn’t felt…distant. In fact, hearing ‘my’ fall from Pure Vanilla’s lips – in that tone of voice – fast on the heels of the other cookie’s emotions spilling over their connection – it had his tail curling excitedly between his legs as he moved towards the other before his mind caught up.

Tucking himself just inside Pure Vanilla’s personal space, close enough to touch but suddenly not quite able to, he nodded in agreement. Confirmation. “Yours.”

Daringly, trembling claws crept along the fold of one of Pure Vanilla’s robes, a little like a serpent seeking sunlight. Swallowing roughly, he asked, “you alright?”

Unadulterated confusion flitted across Pure Vanilla’s face and down their bond simultaneously, before there was a trickle of concern. The healer reached out, grasping his hands in a gentle hold, and then brought them to rest firmly against his chest, as if Pure Vanilla were safeguarding them within the confines of his heart. “Why wouldn’t I be?” The healer asked softly.

Sighing, feeling a wave of embarrassment coupled with a hopeless sort of affection crash over him, he stepped forward, that one final step closer, hands moving from Pure Vanilla’s protective embrace to encircle the other as he too was soon wrapped up in Pure Vanilla in turn.

“I only mean…it’s a lot, isn’t it?” Subconsciously, the Eyes in his hair flickered open one by one, even as his own drifted shut. “What we spoke of, concerning the Soul Jams…my Eyes…this magical resonance, between us. …it’s a lot, isn’t it?” (Let no Lie pass me by, unacknowledged, ever again.)

But Pure Vanilla – Pure Vanilla – his hope – cupped his face in his hands, tilting upwards so that his eyes fell open once more. Then thumbs were brushing against the curve of his cheeks, tracing along the scarring marking him forever changed, before – in the face of Knowledge regarding him so openly, one of Pure Vanilla’s own Eyes opened.

(He could feel it. Distantly, even as he immediately tried to suppress the extent of his own overwhelming essence. But still. He could feel it. Echoing across time-and-space, ricocheting down their bond, within and without himself, Knowledge gifted-and-earned all at once. The Universe that loved the Sun born of its own degradation.)

Pure Vanilla’s lips, against his own. Soft, barely there. Lovelovelove radiating across their bond. (Undeniable.) Fingers, tenderly tucking a strand of silvery hair behind one tapered ear. “You are ever as you should be, my beloved Fount Beast. So, no, it is neither ‘too much,’ nor ‘not enough,’ but just right. …I told you, didn’t I? You are enough.”

There was a moment of stillness. Then-

Near hurtling himself forward, arms curling around Pure Vanilla’s neck, tugging himself upwards as tail and legs curved around Pure Vanilla’s waist and the other cookie staggered backwards with the force of it, until-

A kiss.

***

It felt like he was floating. (He was floating.)

It had been absurdly difficult to disentangle himself from Pure Vanilla, even when the other had simply carried him out the door like he wasn’t carrying another grown cookie.

Thoughts too scattered to even attempt the Dark Moon Magic necessary to craft a stable portal, he allowed Pure Vanilla to tug him along as he drifted behind the other like some sort of balloon. Really, Pure Vanilla seemed woefully unaffected for how utterly empty his own head felt.

(Or, well, almost empty. There was one thing cycling in it, on repeat.)

Affection-amusement-fondness, and then Pure Vanilla was swinging their joined hands gently, saying, “come now, you. We do have a job to do, don’t we? …I’ll give you another kiss when we’re done.”

“Why…why are you so…calm?” He floated closer, tail flicking Pure Vanilla’s nose gently as irritation-bashfulness-adoration-yearning escaped him. Experimentally, he draped himself across Pure Vanilla’s back like a cookie-cape.

The other just laughed at him, one hand going to clutch at the claws around his chest and the other catching the tail in his face before Pure Vanilla started wagging it playfully- (and oh dear, that left him feeling very, very odd-) “Have you ne- ah, hm.” Pure Vanilla fell silent, turning to try and eye him, where his head rest at the other’s shoulder, beholder moving slightly to assist. The healer’s expression was quiet, considering, almost sad. Before he could do more than feel a spike of worry at that expression, mouth opening to ask, Pure Vanilla murmured, “No, I suppose not,” and then leaned in to press another soft kiss against his lips.

He made a frankly unacceptable sound, but before he could gather his wits enough to kiss back Pure Vanilla was pulling away to simply rest their heads together with a soft, “It was…fitting, wasn’t it? A natural progression of all that we are.”

He couldn’t, he couldn’t- he was utterly overwhelmed in the best way possible. Face tucked into the curve of Pure Vanilla’s neck; he focused on feeling the hand that kept brushing through his bangs, the warm grip around his wildly wagging tail, and allowed himself to just be-

Present.

***

It would have been impossible to put all of that away. (He felt too much, and it was all too new.) But fortunately, he didn’t have to. Because, Pure Vanilla remained ever at his side.

(And so, none of the tasks set before him seemed quite so daunting. Anything. He could do anything, so long as this cookie remained beside him.)

Cremefeld was…normal. Impossibly, bewilderingly, ridiculously normal, when he felt like he’d had his entire reality rearranged. The late morning sun had chased away the milk-mists that hung by the river, but the chill of the Lactenwald still clung to the streets. A quiet, understated tension pervaded the hustle among the village square as cookies waited on deliverance they could not be certain would come.

(It was a subtle reminder of a Truth he had long known. Life went on, regardless of his triumphs or tragedies. He was still just like these cookies, in the end.)

Normally, he might have tried to make some sort of entrance. Used flare or spectacle or even stately pageantry to hide how off-script he felt. It had been a crutch. He Knew that. But it had made things…easier. With each Script came a Role, a part-to-play, expectations to conform to. It was safe. The Fount Knowledge-Rulership-Divinity was separate from the Headmaster Academic-Researcher-Politician who was different from the Teacher Guide-Nurturer-Inspiration.

And then there were those Scripts he’d created himself, over the years; worlds apart from the ones he’d been given. Those ‘cookies’ he Knew well enough to embody. Vibrant, theater-loving Blueberry Cobbler; playful, mischievous Bilberry Pie; the wise crone Lady Azure Muffin; the erudite scholar Lord Sapphire Muffin. They were safe, too.

(He had carved up so much of himself. Until there was nothing left but the shameful, lonely, disgustingly-animal parts for Blueberry Milk. The parts he had never dared to show anyone.)

But there was no hiding that, now. Not really. Not here, in this place, where they’d all already seen the wretched Truth that was his reality.

(And yet, it didn’t scare him, quite as much as it should. Because he wasn’t alone. Because there was someone who…loved…the ruined thing he was. A cookie who wanted him. …cookies, even, who seemed to cherish… him.)

And so, he dared to walk forward. Let himself be seen. Pure Vanilla was a steady presence at his side; a comfort who kept him grounded. He followed the healer as the other led the way over to a cookie sweeping before her shop, before taking in a fortifying breath and daring to speak. “Excuse me, madam. Might you show us the way to your elder’s home? Lady Smith cookie, I believe she was called?”

There was an odd moment when a flicker of fatigue and something darker crossed the other cookie’s face, nearly too fast to be seen, before a practiced smile settled on her lips. Looking up, she started, “Forgi-,“ but then her voice trailed off as her mouth fell open, shock turning to awe as her broom fell from slack fingers. Then, “m-my Lord Fount?! …you came back.”

He had seen many a reaction to his presence over the years. …he could not remember the last time it had truly been…relief.

“Yes, of course, my lady.” Returning the broom to the other cookie in a swath of magic, he added, “…t’was always my intention.”

“Yes. …yes, of course. I- the children- …forgive me, my Lord. I’ll take you to see the lady at once.”

It was…concerning. The relief, that hinted at a deeper desperation. Whatever the reason was, for that initial practiced smile, before she'd recognized him. He wanted to be thankful (some distant part of him was thankful) that the cookie hadn’t batted an eye at his claws or tail (They’ve seen it already!); but with the roiling mass of concern-fear-anger he could feel from Pure Vanilla at this reminder of their purpose, he felt mostly a quiet wariness. It seemed that they would have to contend with the true meaning of the presence of silver in the milk and land sooner than he might have wanted. Sneakily snagging Pure Vanilla’s hand with his own to tuck into the crook of his arm as any proper gentle-cookie might, he patted the other’s hand gently, a flicker of wry amusement crossed his mind with the thought: ‘never a moment’s respite.’

They had gathered a small following by the time they made it to the elder’s biscuit-stone lodgings, so perhaps it wasn’t that surprising when the other cookie came out to meet them.

The elderly faerie – Lady Smith Cookie – looked…haggard. Worn. But when she looked up at him, her twisted wing twitched and her expression was severe…but there was something sparkling, in her eyes. “You’re here.” She said, as if she’d never doubted it for a moment.

Something eased, in his heart.

Truly settling on the ground now, trying not to lean too obviously on his staff, he raised one hand to his chest and bowed formally. “I am.”

The elderly cookie’s face split into something almost cheeky, and suddenly, there was a flash of memory – of a cheerful, mischievous cookie sobbing, seeking comfort from him? he’d taught once, so long ago. (Back when his academy was still his.)

(Before he’d truly begun to lose himself to desperation and despair, and started dealing in more dangerous magical sources.)

“Well go, git. Get to it, then!” She made a shooing motion with her hands. “You’ll find you’ve an absurd number of eager helpers, too, should you need it.”

He hid the grin that threatened to break forth as he neatly dodged Black Hyacinth, catching the boy in his magic.

“I’ll be taking this, thank you very much,” he said with a wide, fanged grin. Shooting a wicked little smile at the cookie in his magic, he added, “Don’t you know you should have more than one trick, if you want to surprise someone else?”

“I told you,” Edelweiss called out, sliding in beside him, staring up at Black Hyacinth. “The first two times were pure luck. Mr Blueberry knows to expect you, now.” Turning to him, she added, lips quirking into a smile before she affected a ponderous expression, “You sure you still want to teach this rascal? …not too late to change your mind. …I think I’d make a much better pupil, you know.”

“Hey! Don’t listen to Weiss! She’s boring! She’ll hound you to make sure you eat all your gross vegetable-jellies! You’ll want to teach me – it’ll be much more fun!”

“What?! Why I oughta-“

“You wouldn’t want for entertainment, certainly.” Blackcurrant said dryly, before he added, with an honest smile on his face, “You look well. The both of you.”

“Aye.” There was a snort, and then Gooseberry interjected, humorously, “Bu’ wot ‘e means by tha’ is you’d be be’ter off teachin’ ‘im than these two ‘ooligans.”

“Goose!” A shove, shuffling, muffled laughter.

Laughter.

So much laughter.

(When was the last time he’d been surrounded by so many cookies who made such a genuine attempt at accepting his presence?)

(Beyond the regimented outline of his purpose, the structure of Teacher-and-student, the role of Lord-and-subjects, the divide between God-and-cookie.)

“C’mon, Blue Mr Magic-Tail Cookie! Let’s go fix the milk, show ev’ryone your awesome magic- and then we can finally go celebrate! We got tarts an’ pies and jellies and there’ll be music and dancin’ and silly grown-ups and it’ll be perfect for narratin’-“

“Black Hyacinth Cookie!”

“…oops.”

(Warmth. So much warmth. Within and without. Maybe there was hope, after all.)

Chapter Text

When you’re Right, you’re Right (Even when you’re Wrong)

Controlled chaos. That really was the only word for it. He had seen more than his fair share of chaos, certainly, (in founding a kingdom and then building it from the ground up twice; in rulership and especially in war and …whatever…the Spire of Deceit was supposed to be), but he’d never navigated chaos quite like this. Not thrived in it, in the way that Blueberry Milk seemed to.

The other cookie had given up on pretending to walk with the support of his magic and staff and was now just barely hovering off the ground as he floated between disparate groups of cookies, directing them as if he were conducting a grand symphony.

Well, honestly, he is a conductor of chaos. Always has been…and apparently always will be? …or is that supposed to be reversed?

Simultaneously amused and distressed by his thoughts, he was pulled from them (and the frustrated anxiety that unease had fostered) by Blueberry Milk’s voice. “Nilly! What are you doing, just standing there? Come on!”

He smiled, moving towards the bustling hive of activity and the star at its center. It was strange, having confirmation of the distraction Blueberry Milk was trying to give him in the feeling of worry-encouragement-playfulness that leaked over from Blueberry Milk’s side of their bond as the other cookie tried to pull him out his own head.  …another thing he never stopped doing, no matter what he might call himself. …although he seemed to have lost all sense of restraint, as Shadow Milk.

Blueberry Milk sent a few cookies off somewhere, before turning to the next batch who had returned with armfuls of a strange assortment of objects – predominantly flowers and grains and even a few gems which the scholar dug through carefully before setting some aside and turning away the rest. He inspected buckets and milk pails; yule-wood logs and simple rolled-wood logs; solid almond wood and hard hazelnut wood slats; talked shop about shapes and designs and throughout it all – despite never once turning away from all the cookies vying for his attention – did Pure Vanilla ever stop feeling the regard of the Fount’s Eyes on him.

It made something warm bubble up in his soul, and soon he was closing the last of the gap in order to join in on the conversation. The feel of fur brushing against the hem of his robes had him giving into to the urge to wrap his arms around the other cookie’s waist. Just to hold Blueberry Milk close.

The blankness-shock-embarrassment-contentment coupled with the quiet curse of a cookie losing a bet and coins exchanging hands had him smirking into Blueberry Milk’s shoulder and simply regarding the materials before him to see if he could divine what his Bluebell was trying to do.

The Fount relaxed into his hold as he answered the unspoken question. “We have a lot of things to do today, Nilly. The arrays will be straightforward enough for the milk wells and soda-water pumps. The issue will be ensuring the base material of the pail, for instance, is sturdy enough to withstand the array we’ll carve into it, the silver that will necessarily be attached to it, and daily use. The rest of this stuff is to ensure that afterwards we’re able to perform a ritual that will properly utilize the leylines to help remove the silver from the soil.”

He tilted his head, humming consideringly, trying to work out how the little assortment of heath, grain, yule-wood, gems and even milk would be of help to Blueberry Milk in a ‘ritual.’ But more than that, he was interested in, “Leylines…?” He knew of leylines, theoretically, but he’d never thought anyone might…use them? Somehow?

“Yes, Nilla.” He could feel vague judgement from the other cookie. “Why do you sound so surprised? What else would we use? I mean, why do you think I even built my Spire here, in the first place? We’re right on top of a nexus. …what are they teaching cookies, these days?”

“Question!” Piped up an unfamiliar voice. “Why do we need to worry about all that stuff you talked about concerning pails and pumps and material, if you’re just going to be…magicking up some fancy spell to fix everything?”

Mind still on ‘leylines,’ he let go of Blueberry Milk easily when the other cookie’s claws pat at his hands gently. He listened with half an ear as the Fount said, “Ah! That is a very good question! But first, I would like to point out that a ‘ritual’ is, in fact, very different from a spell’ – but, hm, never mind that. You see, actually, the answer should become apparent if you consider what we know of the silver poisoning so far-“

Curious, he focused his mind and his magic on the world around him. Nothing. Just the faint hum of Life Powder that pervaded every living thing. A flash of insight – he did have Eyes quite similar to Blueberry Milk’s, after all – trying to force one Eye open was a slow, painstaking process as he shifted its attention towards the ground (Earthbread)-

- heat, power, Life, LIGHT  –

“Pure Vanilla!”

Darkness. Smothering, cloying darkness. But not a void. He could sense the full breadth of that distant cosmos of Knowledge covering him, surrounding him, cradling him. A shield. 

Awareness returned in fits and starts. Something wonderfully cool, against his cheek, but pinpricks of sharpness against his back. Winter crispness-blueberries-nearly soured milk in his nose. A senseless rush, in his ears. “-idiot, moron, thrice-damned fool. How can anyone be this irresponsible? You collapsed the minute you looked at me the first time, and you think you can just look at Earthbread?! I should lock you up. Take away all your traveling rights. Magic privileges. Your lack of common sense is baffling. Bewildering. Befuddling, and I am going to do something you will regret if you don’t wake up and come back to me this instant-“

Really, there was only one response to such nonsense. He reached blindly for the other’s wildly thrashing tail and yanked. Perhaps a little harder than he should have.

“Ye-argh! Stop pulling my tail!” But the tail in question started coiling around his hand, up his arm, tugging him forward, and then the cookie he was leaning on pulled him even closer with a murmured, “What am I going to do with you..?”

Still a little lightheaded, he replied, “teach me how to use my Eyes?”

A soft snort. “…you wish.”

“…’m sorry. Didn’t mean to give you such a fright.”

“I know it’s inconsequential, but I think you just took years off my life.”

“…now you know how I felt, watching you suffer through silver poisoning.”

“…Ah.”

“…not going to apologize yourself?”

“I thought I already did?”

“No, you apologized for making me sad.”

“…isn’t that the same thing?”

His hands tightened around the other cookie. “No. Not really.”

Claws, pricking against his shoulders. “…’m sorry.” The Fount murmured, sounding like he didn’t really know why he was apologizing, but recognizing that he should.

Sighing, Pure Vanilla pressed his lips against cool dough, saying, “It’s okay. You don’t have to know right now.” The other cookie hummed softly at the touch, his hold becoming marginally tighter still. Nevertheless, Pure Vanilla soon struggled to sit upright, attention arrested by the glaring quiet. “…why is it so quiet? Where is everyone?”

They were still in the little village square, surrounded by all the material the Fount needed for his array and that mysterious 'ritual' …there was just a concerning lack of cookies. Blueberry Milk actually looked a bit…sheepish. “Ah. I might have…gone a little over board, when you collapsed.”

That… sounded like gross understatement.  Peering at the other cookie concernedly, it was hard to deny how frazzled the Fount must have been given the other’s hair was staring back at him. Frowning slightly at the various dilated pupils fixated on his form, before taking in the way how even now, Blueberry Milk’s claws were wrapped around his arms tightly, he said, dryly, (to hide a sliver of unease), “what did you do.”

But it was hard to hide unease, when he shared a fledgling soul bond with the cookie who worried him so. He was pulled bodily back towards Blueberry Milk, as arms wrapped around him and he could feel more than hear the soft, comforting rumble that he had grown so fond of.

Nuzzling against him, Blueberry Milk said softly, “You needn’t worry. They were just crowding you, when you collapsed, and we didn’t need them – so I walked them off.”

It was…an odd turn of phrase. In fact, no matter how he thought about it…it didn’t seem…right? Somehow?

“You…walked them off?”

The purring ratcheted slightly louder, Blueberry Milk pressed slightly closer, as if the other cookie could forestall the unease through affection alone.

“…I didn’t hurt them.” Blueberry Milk started again. Then, “you are familiar with Dark Moon Magic, are you not? I thought you were. You healed me with it, after all…”

And…he was familiar. …horribly familiar with the way that this cookie had once controlled his movements – strings to his dough so that his body obeyed even when his mind rebelled.

Maybe some of the lingering horror of that experience passed through their bond, because Blueberry Milk whined unhappily and there was a sudden influx of worry-fear-desperation-(despair?) that nearly drowned him in its current as the other cookie trembled, whispering, “I just needed you to be safe.”

(And he understood that. He understood that far, far too well. Couldn’t even truly condemn Blueberry Milk for using a magic he had at his disposal. Might applaud the restraint, even, if he thought of it clincally. (To control another might even be considered a peaceful sort of violence. Insofar as violence could ever be ‘peaceful.’) Yet, the discomfort lingered, accompanied by a strange sort of cognitive dissonance.)

He pressed his lips to Blueberry Milk’s brow, murmuring, “I’m okay, darling.” He took a fortifying breath of blueberries and nearly soured milk and let the shy-giddiness at the endearment ground him. “And…I know. I understand. I don’t condemn you for using a magic that is yours. I trust you. You know that. It’s just…it’s frightening, losing autonomy.” There was a flicker of confusion-question, and his arms tightened around the other cookie slightly. Searching for an analogy, even if it wasn’t exactly the same, he added, “It’s sort of like…you always needing to be ‘the Fount,’ with other cookies? Rather than my eager, excitable, lovely Bluebell?”

Even more confusion flickered across their bond, before Blueberry Milk said in complete incomprehension, “But they wanted the Fount – the God – more than the Cookie. So, I gave them that?”

(It was amazing, how much a simple statement could hurt, when he Knew the one who spoke didn’t understand why it was so painful.) “It’s okay, Bluebell, if you don’t quite understand. …I hope you never do.” The reflection of a silver tree loomed in his mind.

Never.

Leaning back slightly to look in those beautiful cyan-cobalt eyes, he said, “but trust me on that, for now? …and don’t forget, please.”

The other cookie nodded slowly, looking slightly lost, but his expression morphed into something like acceptance as he slowly took in the emptiness that lingered around them. “Alright."

***

The other cookies came back slowly. Gathered around them a little more warily than they had before.

It was the lingering wariness, the furtive looks, the slight reserve with which they interacted with him that drove home a point he’d never have considered on his own.

All he would have known (did know) was that he hated the unease, the distance with which they treated him. (Especially now. When he’d known, for one brief, ephemeral moment, what it was to be one of them.)

But not everyone was afraid of him.

Gooseberry marched right up to them both, looking more angry than afraid, and said, bluntly, “if ye ever do tha’ again, I’ll punch ya.”

Blackcurrant smacked the back of Gooseberry’s head while Edelweiss and Black Hyacinth caught up to them, saying, “Please excuse him. He gets a bit tetchy when people take away his independence.” As an aside in a more sotto voice, he added, “You should have seen him when a cake-wolf nearly bit off my arm, snapping and flaring up like some dragon!” Then, to Pure Vanilla, “Glad to see you’re okay!”

Black Hyacinth had wasted no time in climbing up his back again and resting as heavily as he could on his shoulders, as if in punishment for his brief moment of insanity, and Pure Vanilla just smirked at him when he finally collapsed on the packed dirt of the village square, muscles still too weak to support the weight of two cookies over-long. Giggling even more, Black Hyacinth said, “Ladies- and gentle-cookies, I would like to show you a neat new trick I learned! Here, we have the rare and previously unknown blueberry pancake! Did you see how it all went ‘splat’ so nicely!” He giggled slightly. “Can we do it again? We can! All we need to do is add another ingredient! Hyacinth, for example – or Vanilla – ooh, or both…”

The tip of a sugar dusted cane came down frightfully close to his head. “You always did have a propensity for going overboard, didn’t you, Teacher. …glad to see that hasn’t changed.”

Edelweiss’ voice, sounding particularly long-suffering. “…why is it that I’m the only one with common sense, half the time?”

“You?” Came three voices, all at once.

(It was impossible to stay wary over-long of a cookie who let himself be so unceremoniously manhandled by those who did not regard him with fear.)

In the end, they returned to work with little fanfare. Blackcurrant picked Black Hyacinth off his chest easily and swung the giggling cookie around a few times playfully while Gooseberry hauled both him and Pure Vanilla upwards as Edelweiss pushed a custard into Pure Vanilla’s hands, saying quietly, “it was the only vanilla thing we had. …sorry, we don’t get a lot of vanilla around here.”

Pure Vanilla’s expression softened into that beautiful smile of his as he said kindly, before taking a bite for emphasis, “That’s quite alright. This will do.”

His Light would be alright.

He couldn’t wouldn’t apologize. Not when something inside him was still panicky and his tail had wordlessly hooked around Pure Vanilla’s leg without conscious thought. (The other cookie would be staying close by, and under his direct line-of-sight.) But he could gentle his voice, his movements, and hopefully…bring some ease.

And maybe just…apply the array.

Attempting to dust off his robes as best he could (it wasn’t all that well, but it was probably better to leave that visual reminder alone for the moment) he ended up turning his attention to the assortment of buckets and pails before picking up a large, sturdy one made of solid almond wood. Ah, this will be perfect!

Turning the bucket over in his claws, inspecting the bottom, he asked, “Would this bucket be acceptable for use within the main well? It will suit my purposes admirably.”

There was shuffling as Gooseberry snatched the pail out of his hands before conferring with Blackcurrant and another cookie, talking in low tones and measuring the well and bucket both. “Aye, this’ll work.”

Pure Vanilla had leaned closer to him, and rapped on the pail, before murmuring half to himself, “Almond wood…? Ah!” Turning to the cookies at large he said, “Solid almond wood! Please, go get any pails or buckets and even spare logs or rolls or slats you might have of solid almond wood. It will be perfect!”

(His tail started wagging slowly up and down Pure Vanilla’s leg. Oh, how he loved being around smart cookies!)

Turning to him, the healer asked, “Bluebell, do we have any-?”

“Of course, Nilla! We’ll bring some next time. But for now, pass me my bag? I brought some gold leaf for an inlay.”

Almond wood, with its natural Damage Resistance, would be perfect for the buckets or the soda pumps, without him attempting to brute force protective arrays into the wood which would then need to be accounted for within the final array meant to remove the silver poisoning the milk. And this bucket was clearly varnished in some sort of protective coating, the only difficulty might be in applying his array in the first place. (For another cookie. Not for him.)

But ultimately, this was only a temporizing measure.

Looking out over at the crowd of cookies a moment, taking in the interest and wariness in equal measure, he shifted a little closer to Pure Vanilla and returned his attention to the pail in his hands, before saying, “You’d asked earlier why I couldn’t just use magic to fix everything; the answer has to do with the fact that the silver is in the milk itself. Milk is not stationary, it flows and spreads, and therefore, if there’d been one source that I could simply remove, or a one-time administration of poison, it would neither be as widespread as it is, nor as concentrated in the land as it currently is. Which makes it very likely that the poison is constantly ‘reapplied.’ Or, to put it another way, given our proximity to the Skim Milk River, I suspect that we will find the source further upstream…and are simply reaping the consequence of being further downstream of that.”

He looked up a moment, taking in each grim expression and worried frown, before adding, with quiet surety, “I gave you my word I would stop this. And I will. But that will ultimately require stopping it at the source.”

Lady Smith was frowning so severely that it looked like her dough might crack from the strain. Quietly, she said, “There have been some Institute …riff-raff… sniffing about, recently. Harping on about how we should move…”

A distressed murmur arose from the crowd. Black Hyacinth crept closer to Edelweiss who wrapped a supporting arm around his shoulders, while Blackcurrant, with a thoughtful frown on his face asked, “But…but why? All this just…to get us to…move?”

Gooseberry was shaking his head, saying, “No. There’s gotta be more to i’ than tha’.”

Pure Vanilla’s hand on his back had slowly curved around his shoulder, and fear-worry-anger was beginning to pound down their connection. Tail curling tighter around the other cookie’s leg in response, he brought the hand at his shoulder to his lips instinctively before squeezing gently, saying quietly, “There’s no point in speculating. After we take care of the immediate problem here in Cremefeld, I’ll go to Heidelbeere and get an explanation from the Institute. If they’re studying silver …or whatever might be their purpose… they can be made to stop.”

It would be more complex than that, of course. Silver was such an obscure, unusual area of study, as its magical properties did not easily lend itself to power. Moreover, the issue of source – while specifically that must be the Silver Mountain and the Faeriewood – more generally, that meant there were those of high standing and repute in his kingdom who were necessarily in contact with the faeries who had ceded from the northern-most portion of his own lands, so long ago. Although there was nothing inherently problematic in that, the fact that there were rumors that the malcontents and displaced of the other Kingdoms, his sibling’s cookies, had been gathering in the Faeriewood, as well …that was more concerning.

But he said none of this.

(His Virtue had ever required impartiality. Best get all the pertinent Truths, first.)

Turning instead to the bucket in his hands, flipping it over to inspect the bottom, he flashed a smile up at Pure Vanilla, at the assorted cookies around him.

Maybe he could put on a little show.

Floating quietly forwards a few steps, letting his magic unfurl within him, letting his Eyes fall open, he allowed a tiny sliver of Knowledge to focus upon the task at hand. And, while he did have more than enough mana to brute strength the array onto the bucket, (even if solid almond did resist damage), instead, in using Knowledge and Dark Moon Magic - sinfully sweet, dangerously volatile, alluring and addicting and majestic and grand - his magnum opus - for he had created a magic that was neither light nor dark – neither black nor white – but both - Truth that touched upon the Reality of this World, that only Knowledge could wield to its fullest - he was able to make something beautiful.

Letting the power build up and flow through him (controlled, always so controlled, lest he crumble the little cookies around him under the weight of his own mana, or destroy their minds with the mere shadow of the full weight of Knowledge), that he might Know the bucket, the array, the tiny imperfections in solid almond wood, the amount of force to be applied to inscribe his array onto the bottom, to affix the sliver of silver at the center as catalyst, to apply gold leaf to each rune and arc of the array as magic itself carved it into being, crafting a secondary slat of solid almond wood into a false bottom – Knowledge ensuring the false bottom was perfectly proportioned to enable the particles of silver to return to its most natural form unobstructed, with just enough magic to keep the milk itself protected and pure – until finally, a bucket. A simple, nondescript bucket. Except, if one looked closely (with Eyes that Knew), or was particularly attuned to the flow of magic, one might see the faintest traces of a truly ancient magic; an impossibly grandiose working.

With a sudden spark of inspiration, of eagerness, he used his magic to send the bucket into the milk-well, the splash as it filled echoing impossibly loud in the deep silence. Then he was removing the bucket to show – milk. Pure, pristine, glistening, white, milk. He looked up, a triumphant grin on his face, pride and something softer, more tentative, tangling in his soul. His attention settled on Pure Vanilla, because he wanted – dared to hope-

Pure Vanilla’s dull eyes had opened, were glittering in excitement, his vanilla beholder focused intensely upon him, upon the bucket, upon the milk, a diagnostic spell already cast-

“It…it’s…gone. Bluebell. It’s gone! I mean, of course, I knew it would be, but- the silver – under the false bottom and the milk – the milk remains, pure- Oh, Bluebell. Bluebell! You’ve done it.”

There was a moment of silence. Then – a cheer.

(And then, he couldn’t think on the milk, those other cookies, the noise and sound and wild joy of a people finding salvation had come for them, after all. Not when Pure Vanilla had reached forward, picking him up and spinning him around with joyful abandon, a fierce thrum of love-adoration-affection-pride pounding away in the hollow of his heart.)

His tail and claws curling around Pure Vanilla, he leaned forward, laughing loudly, nuzzling into Pure Vanilla heavily.

I want to kiss him.

So he did.

He was among friends, was he not?

Chapter Text

It’s my own Design (It’s my own Remorse)

Things had settled into something of a chaotic pattern, in the days that followed. After the main well had been purified – proof of concept – it was as if the last remaining shred of restraint had left the village cookies and been replaced by unbridled enthusiasm. Blackcurrant and Gooseberry had initially set themselves up at his side as a pair of makeshift guards, triaging the cookies who came in with requests for arrays that he might attend to the highest priority first.

And there were many requests, those first few days. He and Pure Vanilla were tugged in all too many directions at once; towards the soda-water and irrigation pumps or the few small personal milk-wells that dotted the village; asked to inspect the plethora of buckets that had somehow been summoned into existence and the various samples of wood that might be used to make those self-same new pumps or pails; even an idea for a new mock-up filtration system for the most severely affected homes. They were asked to examine those who’d been stricken down by illness, cookies and livestock both-

It was simply too much for one cookie alone. And yet – Pure Vanilla was his other half. Had easily taken it upon himself to handle requests concerning the ill and the animals while also inspecting and making decisions regarding the wood and raw materials. It felt natural, somehow, to leave those important tasks to another cookie. He trusted Pure Vanilla. So, he simply focused on applying as many arrays as possible.

(He’d never known, that it could be like this. That working with another could be so comfortable, so easy. They worked in tandem. If sometimes, Pure Vanilla came to him with a question, it often raised a point he himself had not considered. Somehow, all it took was a trusted companion with an alternative perspective, and they were building something better than he could have ever made alone.)

And yet, the other cookies were just as important to this process. Blackcurrant, who’d gone to attend the flock of cream and cotton candy sheep, working with Pure Vanilla to nurse them back to health as best they could despite the lack of a true ‘cure.’ Gooseberry and Black Hyacinth remaining at his side, the former taking him to the irrigation pumps, directing the loggers and carpenters to make new equipment from solid almond wood while the latter worked as something of a ferry and the both of them pseudo-apprentices.

(It was easy, imparting little nuggets of knowledge as he worked. He simply picked up where he’d left off in the Spire. Had briefly opened a portal and rummaged around a hole in reality like it was natural, (smirking at the slightly too-blank look on Gooseberry’s face) before retrieving a copy of a magical primer, duplicating it, and handing one each to Gooseberry and Black Hyacinth.

Magic was memorization, yes, but at its core it was creation. Sometimes it was a story. Sometimes it was a song. But it was always, always only as much as a cookie with an idea and the will to write it into being. As long as one could tell the story well enough – was able to tell the story exactly as it was meant to be told – then the World itself would listen. For runes were nothing more than letters or sounds or notes wrapped up in an idea that could change reality.

Then, with a secret little smile when Blackcurrant, Gooseberry, Black Hyacinth, and Edelweiss had gathered around him, eyes gleaming with wonder, he’d revealed the greatest secret of all. Magic was a story that anyone could read. Regardless of whether or not a cookie had the mana to spare, magic itself was different. An array, an incantation, a spell, a song, a ritual – the language was all the same. And the language – runes – that could be taught. To anyone who with humility enough to simply seek to Know.

***

“Alright, enough.” Edelweiss said, somewhat-gently pushing Black Hyacinth’s head into his primer where he was crouched next to one of the newly lain wooden pipes. “Break time!”

Slowly coming out of his work induced haze, he wobbled slightly, before sinking lower where he was floating. Then, warm arms were slipping around his middle, and he leaned back with a tired sigh, relishing the feel of relaxing into Pure Vanilla’s hold.

Pure Vanilla himself was a confusing medley of fatigue-homesickness-relief-pride that only clarified itself when the other cookie leaned just as heavily against him, lips pressing into his hair. He could hear the other release a deep, exhausted sigh, before the healer whispered, “Missed you.”

He swallowed thickly, before his tail twined around Pure Vanilla’s leg and he tilted his head backwards, lips brushing against the other cookie’s chin softly as he hummed, nodding. Arms settling against the pair around his waist, he confessed, “me too.”

The quiet was peaceful, as they watched Blackcurrant trying (and failing) to stop Edelweiss from hauling Gooseberry away by his ear from the furrow he was digging, Black Hyacinth’s laughter echoing over to them. “…never a dull moment, is there?” Pure Vanilla said, smile in his voice.

Muffling a laugh of his own, he said, “At least I got Gooseberry to confirm he would be following the crop rotation schedule I proposed.”

Pure Vanilla’s head thunked a bit harder against his own at that, but there was laughter-not-his in the hollow behind his heart. “You and your obsession with crop rotations…”

Trying to suppress his smile, he put on an affronted air, saying, “I have not forgotten that mindless charlatan’s complaints from Heidelbeere, Nilly. Just because he was so uneducated as to be unable to grasp my vision and the grandeur of innovative farming does not mean I’ll allow him to deny the idea’s merit. I’m telling you, Nilla, this will revolutionize agriculture, as much as irrigation and water works did before! Gooseberry sees it, too! If you think for one moment I’m going to let him disparage-“

Hands, sliding over his mouth. Pure Vanilla’s muffled laughter in his hair. “You talk too much.”

…there really was only one proper response to that. He licked Pure Vanilla’s hand.

“Bluebell!”

***

When they did finally settle in at one of the hastily assembled tables across the town square, it was to a truly generous assortment of goods. (Although, there was always a glass of fortified milk and a blueberry pie that he was forced to eat, first. He appreciated the care and kindness this small village showered him with. Truly. But…he could only eat blueberry pie or drink milk so many times before he was considering banishing the food to his Other Realm. Or outlawing it.) He hid a smirk when another simple custard was placed in front of Pure Vanilla. The healer had admitted that cream was his own secondary ingredient and that was frankly the beginning of the end for the healer.

“Ye’ know,” Gooseberry said, swallowing a large bite of his meat jelly (and steadily ignoring his slice of gooseberry pie) as he came to sit down across from them, “Ah’ still don’ really…know…what it is yer doin’. Wi’ tha’ array o’ yours, ah’ mean.”

“Me neither,” Black Hyacinth said, staring petulantly at his tenth cup of grape juice in half as many days. (Pure Vanilla had startled the first time he’d seen it, snatching it away before he’d been soundly chastised. Apparently, he’d thought it some other, less young-cookie friendly drink?) The boy settled in next to him, before giggling while subtly pushing the grape juice away and then worming under his arm to beam at him with his most innocent, harmless smile. “Can you explain it again? You were talkin’ real fast before, and I know you said that we need to ‘read the story’ and all, but…what if the story doesn’t make sense?”

Edelweiss joined them, slamming a tray stacked high with hearty rye bread, jam pies, meat jellies and the like, saying, “After you finish your grape juice, you hooligan.” She turned a flaming pair of eyes on him and Pure Vanilla. “Masters Blueberry and Vanilla agree with me, don’t they?” She looked over their own barely touched meals and added, “And after we give them some time to finish their own meals, surely.”

“Ye- yes. Yes, of course,” Pure Vanilla said, voice overly calm in that way he had when he was trying not to call too much attention to himself.

He might have argued more, but after the twenty second time these cookies had ignored his various protests (‘I’m immortal’, ‘I don’t need to eat’, ‘I’ve recovered from the silver poisoning, I’m fine’, ‘I’m not hungry’, ‘I’m too busy’, ‘Can I please eat anything else?!’), he’d given up.

“Best give it up, lil’ ‘Cynth,” Blackcurrant said cheerfully. “You know it’ll help you grow big and strong like this lug here,” he added, slapping Gooseberry on the back soundly.

“You see, dear audience? This is what we call cruel and unusual punishment. Oh, how shameful! See how the poor, honest lad is tormented so?”

“Drink your juice.”

“YES GRAMMY, MA’AM!”

Patting the boy’s back in commiseration as Black Hyacinth downed his ‘prescription’ to a chorus of laughter, he hid a smile behind his own cup of ‘milk.’ All it had taken was a subtle there-and-gone hint of magic to switch his fortified milk with Black Hyacinth’s grape juice.

A little bit of mischief was good for the soul, every now and then.

(And Black Hyacinth was truly a performer at heart, he barely even missed a beat when he realized milk was passing his lips.)

(Although, perhaps their impromptu sketch was a little too unscripted, because Pure Vanilla sighed fondly, pressing a gentle kiss to his ear that had the tip flicking and deep indigo painting his cheeks. Lady Smith, too, was staring at him with an unimpressed expression before she shook her head, hiding a smile of her own.)

“But why grapes?” Black Hyacinth was still complaining, even after he’d finished his ‘grape juice.’ He waved his arms around dramatically. “I’m Hyacinth! Hyacinth!”

Blackcurrant tilted his head murmuring, “Huh. You know, I don’t really know? I mean, we all know it works for you, but I’ve never really thought about why. …I always figured it was because Grape Must was your-“

The silence was almost violent, in how deafening it was. He had, admittedly, been curious as to the odd familial relations amongst this group of cookies. Black Hyacinth and Edelweiss seemed close as siblings but looked nothing alike, other than sharing the monochrome coloring of faeries generally. He could not bring himself to ask. Could only glance at Pure Vanilla, uncertain if it would be better to change the subject. And yet, he couldn’t ignore the way Black Hyacinth and Edelweiss quieted, curling into each other in shared pain.

It was Lady Smith who answered, voice quiet and controlled. “Black Hyacinth is my late daughter Apple Cider’s son, while Edelweiss is the adoptive daughter of my late brother Bartlett. They, and my granddaughter, little Caramel Apple are all that is left of the once august Pome Family.”

She was staring at him. Calm. Controlled. Eyes steady. And yet-

“How…?” He whispered; voice hoarse.

Lady Smith smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. But – it was in that smile – vacant, empty, lonely; trying to be strong – that he Knew her.

(He Knew all his students. Just like he Knew all his cookies. But memory was a finicky little thing, often tainted by emotion, by perception. Even his. And cookies were such forgetful creatures that his memory, perfect. It was made to be perfect, just seemed one more curse in comparison. So, it had seemed a reasonable course of action, a little lie other cookies didn’t even need to know, to simply ‘lose’ the Knowledge, until it was needed again. Then he could Know once more. Really, it was only fair, given how much information was rattling around in his head at all times; given how forgetful other cookies could be.)

(It was never supposed to have been important memories.)

(‘When did I start allowing myself to ‘lose’ the memory of my precious students?)

(A thin waif of a girl crying alone in one of the hidden corners of his Academy, silver-green gossamer wings quivering with each sob. Folded over a letter as if it were the most important thing in the world. As if it had broken her. Even though he’d not asked her, back then he’d still been whole enough that he’d not slunk away. Had still tried. Revealed himself to her, sat with her silently, until a little faerie had crawled into his lap, and cried into his robes.)

Those same eyes looked at him now. That smile was the same. “It’s been a few years, now. Back when rumors of illness from the south were less well-believed than they are now and when there were only whispers of the famine that had struck the heart of the Flatlands. First, Bartlett simply…never returned from the Natria…and then a few years later Grape Must and Apple Cider returned from the delta of the River of Rekneading with rice, millet and flour… and, though we did not know it at the time, the White Death, too.” She sighed and whispered, “It took Apple Blossom and Toffee too, not long after. ‘…returning to flour,’ they called it.”

Sick. He felt sick. He could feel Pure Vanilla’s shock and horror though their bond, and it amplified his own even more. …I should have been able to stop this. All the Knowledge in the world, and I could not even save the cookies living right under my nose?! Where was I? What was I…what was I even doing, during all this?!

(Falling. He was Falling. Desperately searching forbidden Knowledge, creating forbidden magics, heedless of cost or consequence. Why would he care or concern himself with cookies who didn’t care about him? Had forgotten and forsaken him? When the only family he’d ever known was going mad? When he was losing the only comfort  ever afforded to him – when those he loved seemed further and further away than ever? Save them. He’d needed to save them. He could save them!)

How could he save them? He couldn’t even save himself.

“I’m sorry,” He thought, or maybe said. It was not enough. It would never be enough. Nothing would make this better. But it was all he had to give. Yet, somehow, maybe it was all Lady Smith needed. Pure Vanilla’s hand curled around his claws, compassion-not-his glowed in his heart as ghosts and guilt and acceptance settled in the air between them.

Subdued, they waded back towards less charged topics. Pure Vanilla and Blackcurrant spoke at length, a calming, soothing balm of sound, of the medical mystery of why Black Hyacinth’s primary ingredient seems to be grapes, or Edelweiss’ was, bizarrely, sunflower seeds.

It was enough to slowly pull the pair out of their quiet pain, to give him a moment to regain his composure, to have Lady Smith finish her glass of cider.

And when he revealed, at long last, with a tiny flicker of a smile on his face, ‘it’s a pun. Young master Hyacinth’s primary ingredient is grapes because grape hyacinths bear a startling resemblance to that fruit, in both shape and scent – particularly those longer ones of the ‘sapphire’ variety,’ Black Hyacinth’s resultant smile (after the shock had worn off) had been real. ‘I’m a pun?! Wait, no- a trick! Hahahaha!’

***

“But really, how did you come up with this?” Lady Smith asked, staring at the sketch of the array he’d created as if it had personally offended her.

“Y-yeah!” Black Hyacinth added. “That, that was the question we asked in the first place, wasn’t it?” Edelweiss curled a comforting arm around Black Hyacinth’s back and then they both turned the same innocently-pleading, if still red-rimmed, eyes on him.

He’d never have been able to say ‘no’ to those expressions. Didn’t want to, after what had just been revealed. Add to that the genuine interest in the faces of the cookies around him, and he settled easily into the role of ‘Teacher’ once more.

“You mentioned… ’colloidal?’” Blackcurrant prompted; voice still soft. (He pretended he couldn’t see the way Gooseberry’s hand curled around the other cookie’s shoulder. While Blackcurrant was never boisterous, there was something more subdued about him, ever since the cookie had accidentally pressed upon painful memories.)

Nodding as his voice fell into an easy cadence, he started, “Yes. Milk is a colloid. All that means is that while it might look like one simple object, it can be considered as two separate substances, one of which is dispersed and suspended in the other. It's a simplification but, for milk, that’s the tiny discrete particulate matter of its ‘nutrients’ suspended in the ‘water-like’ substance that functions as its base.”

Thinking a moment, he added, “Ah, imagine smoke, in the air.” Raising a hand, he cast a simple illusion to illustrate curling, trailing tangles of smoke drifting above their heads. “Smoke is also technically a colloid. What I was able to determine during those days in the Spire was that the silver was also suspended in the milk as a colloid.” Another little flare of magic and a second, blue-colored cloud joined the first, until there was no way to tell where the grey ended and the blue began. It was simply a morass of illusory smoke. “It seems like it’d be impossible to separate them, right? But, in truth, there is a difference between them. Blue is not grey, just as silver is not ‘nutrients.’ So, once I understood that, I could write an array, utilizing the nature of colloids to separate them and return them each to their preferred form.” He waved his hand and the blue and grey smoke gradually drifted apart under the influence of his magic, until the latter had turned into the shadowy image of a lump of silver, and the former a ghostly pail of milk. 

Studying the considering faces around him carefully, he sat back quietly, waiting.

“But…but that would mean the silver is really only removable from the milk, right? What…what about the milk that’s already leeched into the soil? The crops we could still grow, did still grow, before we realized something was wrong?” Blackcurrant said, hushed.

Lady Smith was staring with hard eyes at where his illusions had dissipated. “And what of the cookies who’ve drunk that milk? Or eaten those crops?”

He and Pure Vanilla glanced at each other a moment, before he started. “To answer your first question, that ‘ritual’ I mentioned before is how I intend to remove the silver from the soil. It is, in its own way, a fairly straightforward solution, but has a certain few necessary…requirements...if I wish to make use of the leylines in its casting. That is why I had everyone bring those samples of flowers and crops and milk and such. It’s a…far less stereotypically ‘refined’ method than the array we’ve used on the milk wells and soda water pumps, but it’ll get the job done.” He quirked a smile, adding, “Sometimes something seemingly-simple is the preferred option.”

There was an amusing flicker to Pure Vanilla’s expression, as if he wanted to ask far too many questions. But ultimately, he shook his head, and answered Lady Smith’s question instead. “I do not believe the silver within the ground-milk has reached truly toxic doses, provided a cookie has neither milk as a primary ingredient nor a particularly large mana reserve. One of your villagers… I would expect them to recover, although they would very likely suffer some sort side effect. Even at its most harmless, silver can still deposit into a cookie’s dough and then serve to isolate that area from a cookie’s own internal magical circuitry.

“Prolonged silver-to-dough direct contact would likely result in discoloration of the affected area at best or disfiguring burns at worst. With enough time this would likely lead to a loss of sensation to the area in question, or a more comprehensive loss of flavor and scent and color. …Ultimately, not something life threatening…unless affecting the entirety of one’s dough. …Far more dangerous would be silver directly ingested, or otherwise directly injected into a cookie’s magical circuitry. Then, not only could it have the previously noted effect, it could also deposit into directly or otherwise disrupt the magical circuitry and thus the function of a vital organ. …while this would prove deadly for all cookies with time and prolonged exposure…it would rapidly become truly debilitating for those cookies who have heavy reliance on their own unimpeded internal mana circuitry and circulation.”

It was not particularly surprising, the tension that had spiked across their bond, the more Pure Vanilla spoke, even as the other cookie’s face betrayed nothing but calm emptiness. Smoothing his thumb over the hand curled around his own, he added with dark levity, “What Pure Vanilla means is that so long as you’re not…me – mana not so intrinsically tied to your existence – you should be fine.”

The distant expression on Pure Vanilla’s face blanked further, in time with the echo of fear-not-his, in his heart. “I’ll find a cure.” Pure Vanilla said. “I will heal any who has been afflicted by silver. …you have my word. I just…don’t know how long it will take.”

“Can it be removed, once a cookie has been poisoned?” Lady Smith said, voice severe.

He knew that Pure Vanilla’s answer was likely, ‘no.’ However, “Just because it cannot be ‘cured’ does not mean it cannot be ‘defended’ against. At its core, silver is something that ‘contains’ and ‘blocks.’ Hmmm, think of a dam, within a river. The effectiveness of the dam is dependent upon both the materials used in its construction and the size of the dam, as well as the strength of the river. In this particular case, silver is more effective an insulator against magical flow the more mana it is exposed to. So, for a cookie with less available mana as well as the knowledge on how to manipulate mana flow…the dam is less ‘effective.’ Putting aside silver for a moment, it is well known that when magical flow is disrupted within a cookie, due to injury or illness, collateral circuits often develop with time, which do preserve the overall integrity of the whole.  So, I’ll provide you all with a primer on exercises for internal mana cycling, which will help promote collateral formation.”

Blinking, Pure Vanilla squeeze his hand, saying, “Ah. That’s a good idea, Bluebell. Mana cycling is also a good practice to get into, generally, as it can also improve a cookie’s mood and energy.” With a slight frown, he added, “although, you might want to do it with someone who can detect mana around. …current medical theory is that frequent mana cycling might actually increase mana reserves …which would be counter-productive to our current goals.”

Tilting his head in surprise, he considered Pure Vanilla’s words. He’d never noticed an increase in his magical reserves and mana cycled regularly due to his own dough’s magical requirements. …but then again, would he even notice an increase in his own mana? He had so much of it. However, this was an important enough question that he needed an Answer.

Humming briefly, he considered a moment. He’d not be exposing anyone to Knowledge overlong; just the barest hint of a brush against the depths of his soul. And while he knew the connection was there… he was not quite willing to mute the warm, flickering light that warded off the shadows within him. Had already become addicted to a warmth he’d never before known. Didn’t want to Know what it would be like, light snuffed out. He nodded, once. Just a moment, and not too deep. It’ll be fine.

Face settling into something smooth and serene, he reached for Knowledge, at his core. There was a single, infinitesimally small moment where he felt too large for the tiny, inconsequential thing that chained him to this world, where he was not just one star but every star and the vast void between.

He was the Law that pinned the World together.

It was always disorienting, returning to his tiny, physical cookie body. His dough always felt too tight. Constraining. His tongue often needed time to remember how to move. His emotions, too distant. His voice was flat, when he spoke. “Mana cycling will increase your magical reserves, with time. However, the rate of collateral formation is faster. Therefore, it would not increase reserves so quickly that it would be counterproductive to resisting the effects of silver poisoning, provided a cookie not be continually re-exposed to said silver.”

Eyes opening slowly, vision doubled as it so often was when he was trying to disentangle the part of himself that was Knowledge – that perceived mana and magic and the laws of reality, that Knew the essence of a cookie – from the part of himself that could touch and be touched in turn – he slowly became aware of the pure, unbridled shock (horror?) in the various frozen faces around him. What happened?! 

Panic had always been an effective way at returning him to the now.

Turning to his companion, seeking reassurance and trying not to shrink into himself, he attempted to force his scattered thoughts into productivity rather than fall prey to the anxieties that hounded him. Calling out, “Pure Vanilla-” he froze, taking in his other half. The healer was doubled over himself, hands a vice over his temples. There was slurred edge to Pure Vanilla’s words as he stuttered, “wha-?”

Jam, dripping slowly from Pure Vanilla’s nose.

Utterly panicked, his existence narrowed down to the cookie at his side. Reaching out to Pure Vanilla, claws shaking so fiercely he tore little stripes into the healer’s robes, he was barely cognizant of the cookies around him until gnarled hands firmly attempted to pull his hands away from his Hope-

The growl that erupted out of him was undeniably a Beast’s. His magic, already so close to the surface, rose without conscious thought, the array to force them away from him half sketched in his mind – Dark Moon Magic as natural to him as Knowledge- If they won’t listen, I’ll make them listen. No one is getting between me and my other half-

Warmth – smothering, panicked, cloying – accompanied by a tsunami of affection-exasperation-(peacepeacepeace!) before his every muscle went slack and Truth’s weight was tipping him backwards off the bench. But that was alright, because that was his Hope’s ridiculously powerful calming spell – his Truth was okay – here, still here--

“Catch him!” 

The world spun. (Or maybe he spun.) And there were still too many cookies, was still too much noise and chatter…but he could tolerate it. He could tolerate a lot of things, so long as they didn’t take his Hope away. But Truth was here, pressed on top of him, radiating warmth and calm and referred, echoed agony that was slowly being alleviated by severity-honesty-duty-Malus-domestica applying a healing spell (White-crescent-moon-forty-percent-capacity) to Truth as brotherly-protective-honesty-Ribes-nigrum chattered away with inconsequential words that still somehow flowed over him like a gentle, soothing brook. 

His claw twitched before he allowed it go slack as small fingers that he Knew began to curl around his own. He eased, even more, as a larger, feminine hand brushed his bangs from his eyes as the scent of something heady drifted through his awareness and then vanilla curled around him like a protective cocoon – it’s okay, safe, he was safe, Truth was safe; he didn’t want to hurt loyalty-mischief-Muscari-armeniacum or responsible-cheerful-Leontopodium-nivale; but forthright-determined-Ribes uva-crispa would protect them- …Gooseberry…would protect them. From any and all who would harm his Truth, his Cookies. From me.

Fool. fool! What use are you, if all you do is hurt those who deserve it least? And all because you cannot endure the thought of a moment without Hope's Light? Stupid, stupid cookie! Why do I always bring only pain?

Shuddering as he finally registered the mindless rumble that had erupted from his chest in an attempt at calming himself, he took a moment to simply…be. Ground himself. Vanilla, in his nose. Warmth and weight, pressed atop him so perfectly, as if hiding him from the world. Small, quick fingers squeezing tightly around his hand. Something vaguely coarse being dabbed against his brow.

His double vision finally fading entirely, Knowledge receding into his subconscious once more.

Shame curdled inside him.

He had hurt Pure Vanilla, selfishly ‘forgotten’ the reality of their fledgling bond, exposed the cookie to Knowledge with neither preparation nor foresight, and had then shattered apart at the first sign that Pure Vanilla had suffered consequence from that? Had nearly made these other cookies, who’d been nothing but kind and generous to him, suffer the consequence of his own thoughtlessness and shameful desires?

Was still making them pay. Making them fix his mistakes.

Pure Vanilla was still radiating calm-ease-peace-affection(worry), he could still feel the presence of too many cookies milling about, even as the five that mattered most hovered close by, protective. As if he deserved protection, useless creature that he was, that dared to pretend at godhood, that let them paint him as divine, when he was just a cookie with the weight of the world on his shoulders (Atlas, stumbling.)

Yet he could not deny it. Because he was greedy. He was so, so greedy. And selfish. And he could not say no to this kindness, even when he Knew he should.

Because he yearned. Even when he Knew he would never, ever deserve it. He still yearned .

But still, he Knew. And so, he could only regret, and hate himself a little more, and curl into Pure Vanilla’s embrace, and try to hide the tears that escaped.

(At his head, a tiny white flower, heretofore unknown to Earthbread, grew, watered from his very tears. Born of Knowledge, self-loathing, and Despair.)

Chapter Text

You Know You’re Better than This

In the end, they had all retreated to Auntie’s home. It afforded them at least a modicum of privacy. Mr Vanilla had stumbled along, supported by Currant and Goose, not helplessly, but clearly still feeling the aftereffects of some unseen blow; one hand and the sputtering remains of a healing spell at his temple. Mr Blueberry had been harder to corral, flitting around Mr Vanilla – trying to help, trying to support Mr Vanilla’s weight, trying to heal and thus generally doing none of that. It had taken a slightly stern, wholly exasperated, ‘Bluebell!’ from Mr Vanilla to have the other cookie calming down enough to finally get them all safely inside.

(Until all that remained – of Knowledge, of suffering, of despair – was the half-crumpled bloom of a single, delicate flower. Isolated, trampled underfoot, the only splash of white in a sea of brown.)

Ultimately, Mr Blueberry had only truly calmed when he was able to settle in Mr Vanilla’s lap, once they’d eased the latter into Auntie’s chair. (...as if he were a much younger cookie?) He’d batted Mr Vanilla’s hand away from his temple before applying a healing spell of his own, one so over-strong it briefly lit up the entire room in a soft, golden glow. It was only after the tension in the healer’s form had eased entirely that Mr Blueberry had finally settled; tucking himself completely against Mr Vanilla’s chest, a purr that seemed more a shudder given sound filling up the silence.

(She’d never met an adult quite like the Fount, she was realizing. Before she had truly known him, when she’d seen him only on feast days, he had seemed so composed, so distant and otherworldly that he had felt almost unreal. And yet now, she was finding, he was a chatterbox that could put ‘Cynth to shame, was undeniably tactile, and mostly…he clung to Pure Vanilla as if the other cookie was the only thing holding him together. It made her think, a little, of the way ‘Cynth had crawled, shaking, silent tears streaming down his face, into her bed, those first days and weeks after Mesdames Must and Cider had crumbled.)

(How she had curled up, world monochrome and dark, utterly shattered, when she’d first realized Papp …Mr Bartlett wouldn’t be coming back. …’Cynth had found her then, too, hadn’t he?)

But perhaps, the true oddity was how Mr Vanilla didn’t seem to mind. While he did not explicitly encourage the way Mr Blueberry revolved so desperately around him, he didn’t discourage it, either. Rather, he welcomed it, wholeheartedly; without reserve. And it was adorable. Made something melt a little, inside her, at how completely they orbited each other; their clear acceptance of each other’s whole person even as they were inexorably drawn into the other’s wake. It wasn’t as if she didn’t understand. Didn’t see the beauty in Mr Vanilla’s love.

(And yet.)

And yet.

(This was not how Mesdames Grape Must and Apple Cider had been. Nor how Mrs Apple Blossom and Mr Toffee once were. Mrs Apple Blossom and Mr Toffee had been an ever-flowing dance. Mrs Apple Blossom had been loud and vibrant, opinionated and ambitious if sometimes frivolous. But, she’d been perfectly matched in Mr Toffee. Quiet, thoughtful, a touch reserved, he’d fulfilled her every whim with an understated devotion that had made a cookie baked to be a powerful matron swoon like a lass.

Grape Must and Apple Cider had loved each other. Truly. Deeply. Undeniably. Enough to ignore the whispers and confusion and tittering laughter that their engagement had precipitated. It was not unheard of, of course. A cookie could love whomever they liked. Or no one at all, if they so chose. But still, this was a small village, and that had been many years ago. Regardless, no one could deny their devotion to each other, and then their young son. The two cookies had been frightfully in sync with each other. They had been the only ones truly capable of keeping up with ‘Cynth.

But the Fount and his Keeper? Blueberry Milk Cookie and Pure Vanilla Cookie? They were devoted to each other, yes. In sync with each other, yes. Yet, somehow, it still felt like waiting for something to implode.

Grape Must and Apple Cider; Apple Blossom and Toffee, they had undeniably been better together. But. Each had still been able to stand on their own.)

Then again – as she watched the way Mr Vanilla’s hand slowly soothed up and down Mr Blueberry’s side; as she heard the way that loud, desperate purring softened into something calming and gentle in turn; watched wickedly sharp, half blackened claws tuck golden strands behind one of Mr Vanilla’s ears so tenderly – maybe she was over thinking things. And, in truth, she didn’t quite think Mr Vanilla was wrong.

Regardless. It was not her place. She had no right to judge nor condemn them. (She was always going to be an outsider.)

(Even if some part of her worried. But what did she know about love?)

So, she watched. Watched as the pair in Auntie’s chair slowly calmed each other. Watched as Auntie and Goose hurried away, not long afterwards. Tried not to think too long on the way the frown on Goose’s face was so pronounced; on how Auntie’s expression was so severe. (She feared something terrible must have happened. Nothing good had ever come of that expression.)

Then, she busied herself with preparing tea; tugging at Currant’s hand as he hovered uselessly nearby, looking like he wasn’t sure if he should be standing guard over Messrs Blueberry and Vanilla or following after Goose.

(But he needn’t have bothered. Her little brother had already wormed his way into the tangle of limbs that was the Fount and his Keeper, and she knew better than most how comforting her ‘Cynth could be.)

He’s got everything covered.

***

Handing her the strainer as well as sachets of dried chamomile and lavender before she’d even asked, Currant’s hand brushed hers in silent thanks. Soon, they’d settled into an easy rhythm, one born of long being the two cookies who routinely corralled their more headstrong (or more mischievous) counterparts.

It was when Currant had come back with a tray piled high with tea cups and saucers, no longer wearing the lost expression he’d sported before, that she finally allowed some of her own worries voice.

“…do you know where Auntie and Goose went?”

Currant’s expression flickered briefly, with something that might have been wariness (or perhaps anxiety), before smoothing out into something blank.

Turning, she stared at the other with a flat expression, and then smirked inwardly as he crumpled.

Currant always was the worst liar.

“You know how there’ve been those Institute fellows…and more recently those Court fellows… sniffing about, right?”

Nodding shortly, she frowned, listening, even as she started portioning out the tea leaves into the strainer. Best for more lavender, this time, I should think. …we all need calm. “I thought Auntie sent them packing the last time they were here, though?”

“But they keep returning,” Currant said, voice muffled from where he was digging around in the pantry for some bowls before ladling out some of the jelly stew that always sat, bubbling away, on the coals.

She paused in pouring out the tea into their respective cups. “You think they’ve returned.” It was not a question.

Snagging two large, freshly baked loaves to go with the stew, Currant looked at her soberly. “They must want something.” His smile was wry, but his eyes were worried, as he glanced towards the sitting room, where one of the five most powerful beings in all Earthbread was cuddled up like a common cookie in another cookie’s arms. “…and we’ve not been exactly subtle, this past week.”

She swallowed. “You think…Mr Blueberry…”

He nodded once. “It’s not that unusual, isn’t it? …either because of him, or about him, does it matter? …I mean, Cremefeld itself is so very close to the Spire, too – who’s to say what it has really been about, all this time. …everything seems to revolve around him, in some way. …does revolve around him. He is God, after all.”

Her hands tightened around the kettle, mind flashing to how relaxed ‘Cynth was, tucked into Mr Blueberry’s side. How gleeful her brother had been, when the other had started teaching him magic. Teaching them all magic, regardless of whether or not they could use it. The pure, unadulterated shock on Mr Blueberry’s face, the first time she’d stared at him, not backing down, until he’d eaten the jam-pie offering he’d been given. (Did it matter, that those were offerings and he was a God? It had been a gift, freely given. In good faith. Regardless of who he was; who they were.) The way that shock had turned into something soft and shy and pleased. Happy. “He doesn’t deserve this.”

Currant’s voice was quiet, soft, with an undercurrent of stone. “Good cookies rarely do.”

She frowned, before patting Currant’s arm gently. She didn’t know much of Goose’s past, but she knew enough – had been there, when they’d first found the other cookie, two-thirds the way to crumbling, more jam than dough – and Currant only lost his easy-going smile and thoughtful kindness when it came to one cookie. “We can only be there for them. Support them.” Wry smile twisting her lips, she added, “‘bend, but never break.’ …as Mr Bartlett used to say.”

Currant looked at her a moment, before he smiled, and ruffled her hair vigorously. “Relax, kiddo! No need to be so serious.” His smile gentled, as he added, “It’s true. But don’t forget – you need to allow us – all of us – to be there for you, too.”

Flabbergasted, she stared after the widely grinning cookie before chasing him out of the kitchen with a shout of, “What are you talking about?! I’m fine!”

(And she was. She really was. How could she not be? With the way that ‘Cynth grinned so toothily at her, dancing around her once, before making grabby hands at the tea tray. Or with how Auntie’s face softened at her entrance, eyes closing as if she could finally relax, now that all of her family was back in one place. Goose, shaking his head with a knowing little smirk before he flicked her forehead and then snagged the other tray from Currant, lifting it high above the shepherd’s head and laughing as Currant jumped, uselessly. Even the new arrivals – Mr Blueberry, who still had tear tracks on his cheeks but whose face was split in a wide, fanged grin as he dazzled little Caramel Apple with colorful, magical illusions…all the better to distract the single-minded little cookie from her apparent fixation on his tail; Mr Vanilla muffling his laughter into Mr Blueberry’s shoulder.)

(Even if she sometimes felt like an outsider. She knew – she belonged.)

***

There was something endlessly entertaining in watching his Bluebell quietly battle a tiny little cookie for ownership of his own person – his tail, his claws, his robes – and failing. Because, make no mistake, Blueberry Milk was absolutely failing.

It had started when the tiny cookie had toddled in seemingly from nowhere, eyes bright with curiosity and an eager smile on her face. She had frozen when she saw them, face twisting in confusion. (They had all frozen, in truth.) Before confusion could devolve into a cry, Black Hyacinth had nearly jumped from his perch in Blueberry Milk’s lap, grinning toothily at the resultant whoosh of air, before scooping her up and swinging her around, singing playfully, “Itty-bitty Appy!” then, in a more hushed, yet carrying whisper, he added, “We have some very special guests in the audience tonight! Blue Mr Magic Tail Cookie – Mr Blueberry – and his Keeper, Mr Vanilla. …won’t you say hello?”

The girl had looked at them, before burying her face in her brother’s neck, peeking out, hiding away, and then waving shyly. “’lo.” A pair of tiny wings fluttered behind her.

It reminded him, terribly, of Strawberry. And for a single minute, the longing, the yearning for his beloved friends, his family, for the his children, was almost overwhelming.

He would save his Bluebell. But, oh how he missed the ones he’d left behind.

He could feel the other’s concern-worry-question trickling down their bond, accompanied by Blueberry Milk’s tail coiling around him just a little bit tighter. With a tiny sigh and an increase of the strength of his embrace about his Bluebell’s waist, he softly pressed his lips to the nape of the other cookie’s neck before murmuring, “Later. …looks like you have a new friend.”

And that had been that, for his Fount. The little faerie must have seen his tail as it moved, or some other part of the Fount’s beauty caught her eye (he understood, completely) because she’d wiggled out of Black Hyacinth’s grip and tripped over herself, giggling, before reaching out to tug on the trailing midnight-blue strands of the galaxy that made up Blueberry Milk’s hair; the dark blue of his furry tail.

Blueberry Milk had made a choked sound of discomfort at the latter that was half a cat’s yowl, half a whine and wholly hilarious. Even trying to hide his tail or catching the little cookie’s hands in his had simply resulted in a new fixation with Blueberry Milk’s half blackened claws, or the golden trim of the hem of his robes. He’d had to muffle his own laughter in the Fount’s shoulder; even Black Hyacinth had been giggling.

(Another thing that hadn’t changed, in all the years, it would seem. Blueberry Milk was always a little more hilarious when it was utterly unintentional. He would never forget the unexpected humor of ‘Sh! Shshshhhhh. The adults are talking!’ even if he’d not been in a state of mind to appreciate it at the time.)

Yes. One of the Gods of this land. The revered and respected Virtue of Knowledge. And absolutely losing to a tiny cookie with a single-minded determination to explore something new and exciting.

(But it had been good. A distraction from the panic-self-loathing-despair that had smeared like tar over Blueberry Milk’s mind and soul, when his other half had inadvertently hurt him with Knowledge himself.)

***

It felt a little bit like a war council. (He would know. He’d been to more than enough of them.) Even the food, strewn on various tables despite the fact they’d just eaten, was familiar. The tea was lovely. Chamomile, a bit heavy on the lavender, but all the more calming for it. Blueberry Milk had looked a little bemused at the tea, but was drinking it easily, all the same.

The attention of the cookie in his lap was on the little cookie in his lap…who was very slowly brushing over the thick fluff at the end of Blueberry Milk’s tail as if she were counting each individual strand of fur. Caramel Apple, as she’d been introduced. And with the way she’d had her hair pinned up in twin tails, that name; he was suddenly reassessing ‘Black Hyacinth’ even as something in him shuddered with anxiety.

The more he thought he was shifting away from fate’s predetermined course…something reared its head and forced him to contend with an ugly question. Was he really?

He had to be. He had to be.

But that meant, despite the faint traces of dizziness and lethargy, the headache that lingered from his unexpected exposure to Knowledge, he was even more focused than before on the cookies around him.

(He didn’t want to miss anything. He couldn’t. What if the Truth he missed was the thing that could have saved Blueberry Milk?)

“…you look…troubled.” He said gently, vanilla beholder not missing the way Edelweiss’ gaze flitted between Gooseberry and Lady Smith and back.

Blueberry Milk’s head rose from where he was trying to keep Caramel Apple gentle with his fur, and he passed a hand down the Fount’s back without conscious thought. It had the other cookie’s attention turning again to the little girl in his lap, but he didn’t miss the way Blueberry Milk’s ear twitched once, or the slight tilt of the scholar’s head. It seemed the Fount was content to listen, and let him take the lead.

Arms tightening around Blueberry Milk’s waist as he leaned against the cookie in his lap, he pressed a smile into the other’s hair before turning serious eyes and an assessing gaze onto the pair of cookies who seemed to know best what was going on.

Lady Smith’s answer was swift. “We’ve been dealing with unwanted interest from the Institute and more recently the Court for some time now.”

Frowning, looking between the various cookies gathered around him, he found himself trying to understand why they all look so unsettled. “…and that is an…unusual thing, I presume?”

“O’ course it’s unusual.” Gooseberry responded, voice bitter in a way he’d not heard from the other before. “Ye think th’ nobles ‘ave our bes’ int’rsts in mind? They only remember us when they wan’ somethin’ from us.”

Blueberry Milk did not shift, did not even turn away from where he was gently carding his claws through Caramel Apple’s hair, as the little cookie had finally tired herself out enough that she was now dozing, arms curled around the Fount’s tail like it was a treasured plush. And yet, he could feel the slight tension, as Blueberry Milk held himself too still. Could feel the way expectant-emptiness echoed across their bond.

This is important.

“You mentioned they wanted you to…leave?” He started, voice slow, testing the words as he spoke them.

Gooseberry scoffed, shaking his head. “There has ta’ be more to i’ than tha.’” It was Blackcurrant’s hand that settled in reassurance around the other cookie’s shoulder, this time.

Lady Smith’s lips quirked into a subtle frown, but she only said, “While Gooseberry’s disdain for the nobility does perhaps have the ability to cloud his judgment, I do not believe his concerns to be unfounded, in this case. At first it was only some Institute mages, apprentices and the freshly graduated; but more recently it’s been full-fledged magisters, as well as those dressed in the colors of House Sinensis.”

Gooseberry shook his head sharply, saying, “It’ not jus’ ‘Ouse Sinensis. It’s Lord Assam.” …hunted. Gooseberry’s expression was hunted. “…Ah’ would know.”

Blueberry Milk did shift a little, this time, but it was only to welcome Black Hyacinth into his lap, as well, before he carefully coiled around the two little cookies protectively.

“Goose…” Blackcurrant murmured, sitting down next to his friend, hand squeezing a little more tightly at the other’s shoulder before wrapping around him entirely.

“We cannot know that for certain, Gooseberry.” Lady Smith said in a calm, flat tone.

“Ye’ think Ah’ wouldn’ know?!”

Coughing in an unsubtle attempt to cut into the budding argument, he asked cautiously, “House Sinensis? …Lord Assam?”

The flat, deadpan, utterly disbelieving looks he received in response to the question had his fingers twitching, ever so slightly.

Maybe I should not have asked.

(He had easily told Blueberry Milk the truth of his presence in this place. …he wasn’t quite willing to let that become common knowledge, however.)

Rough, ragged claws squeezing gently around one of his hands, brushing soothingly over his knuckles. Calm-reassurance blossoming deep within the shadow of his heart.

Blueberry Milk spoke quietly, tone hushed for the child asleep in his lap. “House Sinensis is one of the Four Great Houses of Gnosia. While I might be Lord of this land, I am not its king, nor did I establish its governance. Millennia ago, cookies simply…gathered around me, those who sought learning and Knowledge. …I taught them.” The Fount paused a moment, voice weary and eyes distant.

Shaking his head as if to dislodge cobwebs, tail and arms curling more tightly around the small cookies resting against him, Blueberry Milk leaned more heavily into his hold, nestling closer, before continuing. “Cookies are…naturally a fractious bunch. Especially when they have something they all…want. I had to arbitrate a few disputes, quell some budding arguments. But ultimately, with prodding and advice, the cookies arranged themselves into the web of houses and fealty we know today. The Four Pillars of the Court, and with them, the Church, soon after. Then came Heidelbeere and the Institute as well as the various other Villages, with their charters…  Cremefeld is actually quite old, you know…”

Sighing softly, tone dipping into something melancholy even as resignation-loneliness-sorrow filtered from Blueberry Milk across their bond, the Fount admitted, quietly, “But none of it is…mine. I helped with the curriculum at the Institute, provided recommendations as to city planning for Heidelbeere, accepted that my presence would sometimes be needed to adjudicate certain matters of the Court, allowed the Winter Solstice festivities as my own personal ‘Feast-day’ …but none of it was mine. …Not like my Academy was.”

“Is.” The words were nearly sharp, and they fell like blades from Lady Smith’s lips. Her expression was nearly chiding, as she said. “Is, Teacher. No matter what they say – no matter the rumors – to those of us to whom you opened your doors – regardless of who we were – you will always be our Teacher, and Blueberry Yogurt Academy our home.”

He could hear his Bluebell sputtering in shock, could even feel the heat radiating from the tapered ear near his neck; could register the excitable cadence of Black Hyacinth’s agreement, but it was a distant thing. As if he were impossibly far away.

Blueberry Yogurt…? What? But…how? Blueberry Milk was focused entirely on him now, trying to twist in his lap with two little ones still tucked against him, and yet all he could feel was shock tinged with something that might have been hysteria, but could just as easily have been self-deprecation- Oh, Of course. How did I not see? It’s in the very name! And the décor is similar to the Spire! …both Spires…and the uniform – the star- his hand passed gently, unconsciously, over that self-same star pinned to his Bluebell’s breast – a lock over his heart – the first Headmaster.

It wasn’t quite panic. But it was something just close enough – he slowly came out of his own head only to realize that he could feel the anxious vibrations of the Fount’s purring, as a bizarre medley of calm-worry-bewilderment-peace swamped him like a tidal wave. He recognized the three shades of color staring up at him, even if it took shifting the Vanilla beholder in his magic to truly see that combination for what it was. A trio of cookies that he knew; those who had embraced deceit, in that future-past.

Apparently, Blueberry Milk had woken little Caramel Apple up, in his desperate bid to calm Pure Vanilla with his purring; to pull him out of his own head.

Embarrassed and more than a little shaken by the way past-and-present were conflating together, he buried his face in Blueberry Milk’s shoulder, breathing in deep, desperate breaths of blueberry-winter crispness-nearly soured milk.  Curling a little tighter around the smaller cookie, his hand passed rhythmically, almost spasmodically from the star-and-lock pinned to the Fount’s robes up and down that rumbling chest. Here, his Bluebell was here, with him, whole and warm and real.

“…you are my Teacher, too.” He admitted, quietly. (A Truth he could accept.)

He smiled weakly as he felt the exact moment Blueberry Milk understood from the way shock turned to stillness over their bond. His Bluebell was always so quick-witted except concerning good things about himself.

He found himself laughing softly, voice thick, strangely, with tears.

“You went to Teacher’s Academy?” Lady Smith’s confusion was soft and distant.

“You went to my Academy.” The Fount whispered, as blankness slowly turned into bubbling, effervescent joy and something softer, more heady, like relief. Then, claws brushed gently against his cheek, turned his head downwards, and lips met his in a soft, reverent kiss.

***

Some part of him was aware that he should be embarrassed by the intimacy. Ashamed of his lack of decorum. He was, in fact, rather embarrassed by the way Edelweiss had turned her own gaze away, cheeks flushed, or the slightly amused look that had passed over Blackcurrant and Lady Smith’s faces. Even Gooseberry was steadfastly staring at the flames flickering in the small fireplace-

But it was all too new. Touching. Being touched. Being held and wanted and feeling warm. (At first, it had been him, not knowing what to do with a heavy arm slung around his shoulder, or thumped across his back, as Spice had laughed. Shoulders too stiff as Salt had weaved his hair into a braid with steady hands. Stumbling uselessly as hands pulled him along, tugging at his shoulder, his elbow, spinning him in place, as he’d first showed Sugar some of the other cookies he could Know, the forms he could take. Flour had been easiest to understand what to do with. Just a gentle brush of shoulder-to-shoulder or knee-to-knee, as they sat in quiet silence and the company of another who did not demand. Then, those hands and shoulders and that gentleness had come less and less, and by the time he’d understood how much he wanted, they had rarely come at all. And when he’d finally tried to reach out…it had already been too late. Overtures for reunion rebuffed or demurred or cast aside entirely, and he knew what it was to be ignored. Even the little folk, who had never touched him except in moments of weakness, soon lost that weakness entirely around him.)

(So, no. He could not stop himself from reaching towards that intimacy. Not when it was still a marvel, each time he was allowed to touch; was touched in turn. Not when he yearned for gentleness as a plant craved sunlight.)

(Even if it resulted in a sudden, rather painful tug on his tail, before little hands grabbed fistfuls of his bangs, and he was met with the truly thunderous expression of a cookie that didn’t even make it up to his knee. Caramel Apple’s eyes sparked with something that looked a little like righteous anger and then she shook her head soundly, saying, ‘Nuh-uh!’ She tried to tug him bodily from Pure Vanilla, clinging onto his robes like she was trying to merge with them.

There had been a moment of complete shock, before Edelweiss had said, tone lilting in amusement, ‘I think she likes you.’

…At least everyone had gotten a good laugh out of it.)

***

Settling the fussy young cookie in his lap, claws threading carefully into her hair and wondering if he should hazard an attempt at a sleeping spell, he was jarred from his thoughts by Gooseberry’s voice; wry and amused, but also a little concerned. “An’ tha’s why Lord Assam’s goin’ ta be a problem…”

He could feel Pure Vanilla’s own confusion, echoing his, as that hadn’t made much sense. “What do you mean?” The other asked, arms tightening around his waist.

Twining one claw with Pure Vanilla’s hand, he waited quietly, the beginnings of concern bubbling in his mind as he took in the way Lady Smith’s gaze slid between them, before she said, with careful inflection, “This little village is not as removed, as private, as it once was, my Lord.”

His lips twitched into the barest hint of a frown in thought. That mode of address- cookies of the Institute and House Sinensis- he stiffened. We’ve been seen!

Pure Vanilla had clearly come to the same conclusion, although he seemed far less concerned. “And…that is a problem?”

The cookies arrayed before them eyed each other a moment, before Lady Smith said, voice slow and firm, “It’s not that you’ve been seen, per se. Nor even that your…affections…for each other have been made…abundantly clear.” There was a tiny, fond half-quirk of her lips at that, before she sighed, losing the soft joy. “Rather…it’s a change. Something new – different – something that has the power to disrupt the status quo. …and there is no changing that the Fount is still the Fount.”

Throat suddenly frightfully dry, he nodded, slowly. He understood, of course. It was one thing to have cookies he knew and trusted know of his affections. It was another thing entirely to have those self-same affections be public knowledge, especially when he couldn’t be certain he could control the narrative. Having to consciously remind himself to not let his claws clench too tightly into the fragile dough of the little cookie tucked against him, he was drawn from his ruminations as Pure Vanilla said slowly, “You worry I could be used as a weapon against the Fount.”

Shaking his head, lips half curled into a snarl, he clutched tightly at the hand around his waist, saying, “No, I won’t allow it. You will not be hurt because of me.”

But Gooseberry simply stared at him head on and said fiercely, “Ye’ could absolutely be used as a weapon ‘gainst th’ Fount. Lord Assam’s not the type t’ let anythin’ pass ‘im by.”

The look in Gooseberry’s eyes was challenging. It had a deep growl rattling in his chest, anger sparking within him as he retorted, “He’s welcome to try me.”

Pure Vanilla didn’t let that last long, however. “Bluebell!” A fist bopped down gently on the crown of his head.

Blackcurrant exhaled a tired little sigh and then brought his own fist down on Gooseberry’s head, before rubbing vigorously into the other’s hair. The resultant ‘Gerroff me!’ at least relieved the tension.

He then turned back towards both him a Pure Vanilla, a solemn expression crossing his face, as if taking in the picture before him. Quietly, he asked, “Would you truly be here now, my Lord Fount? Had Pure Vanilla not been here?”

That question – that expression on Blackcurrant’s face – it froze him in place. Something that was not quite dread, not quite shame, but some unnatural amalgamation of both, settled like a weight in the pit of his stomach. But it was soon counteracted by, of all things, the strangest concoction of fear-desperation-hope he had ever felt, as Pure Vanilla inhaled audibly behind him.

Still, though. His own answer – to these cookies who had become so dear to him – his…friends?

“Bluebell?” Pure Vanilla asked softly, as if the question were important.

Hands, running up his chest encouragingly. Being tucked into a warm embrace, as Pure Vanilla curled around him. A tiny cookie scooting over his lap to wrap her arms not even part way around his robes, staring up at him intensely with a wide, guileless smile. Black Hyacinth, giggling softly and tugging his arm more firmly around his side, as the young cookie said, sotto voice, “And this, dear audience, is the face of a cookie who knows he’s done wrong. Torn between a truth and a lie, as it were!”

It has him flicking the boy’s forehead gently, murmuring, “I thought you were on my side.” Then, swallowing roughly added, “…no. I highly doubt I would be here, if not for Pure Vanilla.” And it was purely shame, in that moment. And yet, the way these cookies didn’t move – their expressions barely budging beyond gentle acceptance, nodding as if it were something they’d known all along; the heady relief-not-his, in the hollow behind his heart – maybe it might be alright, after all.

Maybe I can change, after all.

Voice thick with too many emotions to name, he added, “But I’m here now.”

And at that, there was a tiny smile of relief, like a release of pressure. Gooseberry’s lips quirked into a fierce little grin and Edelweiss just stared so fondly at the little picture they made – him and Pure Vanilla and Black Hyacinth and Caramel Apple overfilling one chair – until Blackcurrant laughed and wrapped an arm around Gooseberry and Edelweiss both, pulling them close.

It was Lady Smith who replied, leaning back in her chair, eyes closing as if she might finally rest. “That you are.”

Chapter Text

There will Come a Ruler (Whose Brow is Laid in Thorn)

It was the scent of wet earth that hit his nose first, as they passed the boundary of the tree line. Shivering at the early morning chill that clung to his dough, his foot sunk into the damp earth of a fallow, loamy field.

A frisson of unease shivered down his spine.

Blueberry Milk had directed them unerringly to what he’d described as the ‘nexus.’ The perfect place for this final magical working of theirs. And, it had been easy to understand what the Fount had meant, upon their arrival. He could feel it. A faint hum he heard not with his ears, but felt with his dough. A river of light and heat, just beyond his vision. And yet, some instinct, beyond the Fount’s rather desperate demand to ‘not look at the magic underpinning reality, please?!’  had kept his Eyes firmly shut.

(Once had been more than enough. Never mind the fact that there was still the phantom memory of pain at his temples, at the very thought of it. He was mostly recovered from his exposure to unconstrained Knowledge, but the implication that this could somehow be even worse... to See, here, was to be blinded. His was not Divine dough, baked to endure the weight of the world upon his shoulders.)

And yet, what he did see, was enough. Because the sense of familiarity had grown stronger and stronger with each passing step until he finally closed the eye of his vanilla beholder and opened his own eyes, instead, and was met with a vast swath of brown, or maybe grey. The memory of agony, lancing through his skull.

A hand, at his elbow, and Blackcurrant’s voice, quietly concerned. “Pure Vanilla?”

Looking around slowly, taking in the swirling morass of indistinct grey-brown-green (the expanse of empty fields with the remains of tillage; there was the tree line beyond which hid the little cookie-made path that connected Cremefeld and the Spire of All-Knowledge). He whispered, “…I know this place.”

Blackcurrant’s confusion was a distant, tinny thing.

I shouldn’t be here.

Then, Blackcurrant’s amused, “I will never get used to that;” just before he released a startled yelp, suddenly aware of cool claws and the weight of another cookie curled, hovering, draped down his back. Attention-concern-question-reassurance settled over him like a blanket (like the cookie in question.)

“Mr Blueberry-?” Came Black Hyacinth’s voice, out of breath as if he’d chased the other cookie. The sound of shoes shuffling, the crunch of wet soil under foot, and then he could feel all these precious cookies, dear, if new, friends; gathering around him.

“Mr Vanilla?” Edelweiss spoke carefully, tone tinged in concern.

“…why here?” He asked, hands drifting upwards to hold his Bluebell in place, fingers tightening around cool claws.

He could feel his other half’s concern fade into true worry, then, before Blueberry Milk’s tail quietly twined around his waist. Claws shifted under his hand until arms were wrapped securely around his shoulders.

“…I mentioned it before, did I not?” the Fount asked uncertainly, before continuing, “the leylines. This is…a nexus. The true point of confluence for much of the magic threading through Earthbread.”

“…wai’, here?” Gooseberry asked, sounding a little alarmed.

“…yes. Which makes this the perfect location to perform a ritual necessarily large enough to encompass the entirety of Cremefeld and complex enough to remove the silver polluting the soil in its entirety. …I could power such a working on my own, but by using the leylines instead, I can ensure the working persists, regardless of what happens to myself. Constitutively active, as it were. …removing the silver from the soil will take time, after all.”

“Question!” Black Hyacinth said, hand waving wildly about, before he coughed and adopted a more poised expression. “if…if this is a…nexus …shouldn’t it be in the center? Of Baker-Yeast? Or maybe Cremefeld, I guess? More thataway,” he finished, pointing.

It was a good question. In fact, it was the exact same question he had, and from the sound of shuffling, he suspected the others were wondering much the same.

And yet, Blueberry Milk …shifted. Ever so slightly. Apprehension-uncertainty coiled restlessly in the shadow of his heart. Arms and tail tightening a shade, the Fount asked, carefully, “…have you ever seen a map? Of Earthbread. …a…full…map.”

Edelweiss and Black Hyacinth were looking at each other in some confusion, while Blackcurrant just sheepishly shook his head. Gooseberry was mumbling, “Ah mean, ah’ve seen a map of Baker-Yeast ‘afore? …when ah’ was still in th’ service of-”

(A chill. He had seen a map of Earthbread many-a-time. Had seen them updated, over the centuries. First the continent of Crispia; then knowledge of the Candystick Archipelago, then Wholgrania was added, then Sugarburg until finally, Beast-Yeast. …Baker-Yeast? And it had always been a little unsettling, because sometimes…when he looked at Earthbread just right… it had looked like-)

(A cookie.)

He swayed.

Arms, tightening around him, even as the form at his back supported his weight. A tenuous thread of comfort-reassurance, but it was difficult to take to heart when it was shot through with an undercurrent of unease. “You will find,” the Fount continued quietly, “that the true magical center of Earthbread – the true nexus – is actually far to the west of here. The leyline of Baker-Yeast actually runs parallel to the continent, from the westernmost shores of the Lactenwald to the far edge of the Spicelands.”

What…? But that’s…surely not…?

He was a healer. He Knew the internal magical circuitry of cookies. Unobstructed flow was vital to a cookie’s existence. To block the internal magical flow of a cookie at certain key points – the head, the heart – was to crumble them. (That was what made silver so dangerous.) So, he Knew the path magic must take, within a cookie. Knew all the little aberrations and variance and all the things that stayed the same. The flow of magic must always follow the shapes of the cookies themselves, head-torso-limbs-and all.

Parallel to the continent – he couldn’t – it was too horrible- too much- he couldn’t- a leg.

Loud rumbling, vibrating into his back. A clawed hand passing up and down his chest in uncontrolled little movements. A tail, too tight, wiggling up and down his side, as the cookie snaked around him tried to comfort him in only way he knew how. Comfort-safety-protectprotectprotect swamping him. It might have worked better, if not for the steady undercurrent of fear-resignation-acceptance that he could still barely feel from the other.

“It’s alright. I promise, it’ll be alright. They can’t hurt you. I’ll protect you. I’ll always protect you.” Blueberry Milk whispered softly, chanting it over and over again. A prayer.

(“They…?” a small hand, curling into his robe. The warmth of cookie bodies, hovering even closer. “What does he mean?” “Why’yer lookin’ a’ me? Ah’ dunno!” “…it doesn’t sound good.” “…No.” “…we’ll be okay, though. …won’t we?”)

How…? Who could have possibly done…? He knew who could have done such a thing.

There was only ever one possibility.

Witches.

Feeling sick, he rasped out, “let’s just…get this over with? I want…I want to get out of here.” His hand tightened to the point of pain around Blueberry Milk’s own, at his chest. “Please, Bluebell.”

A moment of stillness, the feel of Eyes, on him, assessing. He just held tighter to the cookie coiled around him. A sigh at his ear, and then lips, against his cheek, as the other cookie disentangled himself gently. “Of course, Nilly.”

He wanted to watch. He wanted to immerse himself in the Fount of Knowledge’s boundless capacity for magic. The awe that came with recognizing Divinity for what it was, and knowing that Divinity was still small, and cookie shaped, and his. But he couldn’t. Because all he could think of was the remains of a cookie, torn apart by uncaring hands. A cookie sealed, by unloving hearts.

Hate, fear and betrayal were a truly terrible combination .

***

It was hard. Harder than it should have been, to tear himself away from Pure Vanilla’s side. But he had work to do. Responsibility waited for no one. At least he could be sure the healer was safe; the Eyes that dotted the voids amidst the swirling nebulae of his hair open and fixated on the other cookie. And with Black Hyacinth and Blackcurrant standing watch over his Nilla, he knew the other would be in good hands.

Edelweiss and Gooseberry had joined him instead, in order to assist with the final preparations. He flashed them a weak, fanged grin when Edelweiss tugged on his robe; when Gooseberry stared expectantly at him, waiting. It was as if they didn’t see the Eyes in his hair, feel the pressure of Knowledge bubbling too close to the surface.

Or maybe they just didn’t care.

“We’re here to help, Mr Blueberry. Just let us know what you need. …and then we can finally be done with this, and show you a proper festival!” Edelweiss finished with a little smile.

“Aye.” Gooseberry grunted out. “Lady Smith tasked us t’help ye wi’ this. So let it be done.”

Shaking his head slightly, he said, “We’ve done most of the preparations already – you’ve placed the offerings – the samples of flora and wood, gems, grain, milk – I gave you at the cardinal points around Cremefeld and the outlying fields, correct?”

Edelweiss nodded slowly, looking curious, asking, “Yes. We’ve done as you asked. …but why? What was it for?”

He smiled again. It was nice, to be asked a question out of a genuine desire to learn once more. To know that there was no ‘correct’ answer but the one he truly meant.

“It’s to help the magic from the leylines invoked during the ritual Know the purpose of the working. Rituals are an incredibly unique form of magic, in both source and conveying of intent. The source – the natural magic of Earthbread, contained in the leylines – is accessible to most every cookie. Even those who are not naturally magically inclined. …we are all exposed to it, and contain Life Powder, after all. When it comes to source, the only difficulty is in controlling whatever magic is invoked, or perhaps, invoking only what is needed. But, a strong Will, coupled with a focus, such as a staff, can help ensure that the caster is not overwhelmed.”

(Not that he would need such a support. No. His was an existence beyond the leylines.)

“Intent, also, is straightforward to convey, as it is little more than Will – runic shape inscribed in the mind, not the ground – and some sort of identifier that can help direct the magic towards its purpose. Theoretically, so long as a cookie had the prerequisite knowledge of runes – knew the exact Story they were writing, as it were – any cookie could conduct a ritual. But therein lies the rub. Knowledge of runes is not widespread, and the depth of knowledge required would be…considerable. And this putting aside the mental focus required to not lose oneself to or be overwhelmed by the power of the leylines; the focus needed to maintain a complete working in mind, with neither interruption nor distraction.

Furthermore, most rituals are cast over an area-of-effect, like an array, but unlike an array, the boundary is not within the array itself. So, one needs a way of demarcating extent-of-effect. All of this is why arrays are usually considered much easier to create. You only need to craft the array once, and the area-of-effect is built in while intent is indisputable.

Of course, an array, in this case, would necessarily be incredibly complex and the runic scripture even more intricate than the one I’ve been using for the milk wells. …It would need to account for the fields and growing things, cookies and livestock, unexpected travelers exposed to silver – infinite untold variations and uncertainties – everything.  It would also be ridiculously large, physically inscribed into the ground encompassing all of Cremefeld. Never mind the amount of mana required to cast and then maintain the array. It’s simply impractical. Better to perform a ritual to teach the leylines what needs to be done, so it might be done intrinsically, without ongoing input from a caster.”

Brows furrowed, Gooseberry said slowly, ponderously, “So th’ heath…the milk ‘n’ grain… the yule-logs …ah. I’s ta’ be Cremefeld, then? Fer th’ magic.”

“Ah! And the locations – north and south and east and west of here with all of Cremefeld inside and here in the center – it’s to be the boundary? As if it were an array?” Edelweiss asked, excitement shining in her eyes.

“Yes, precisely! Good job, you too.”  He smiled even more widely, before daring to reach out and pat Edelweiss’ shoulder once, and flat out grinning at the near bashful expression on Gooseberry’s face.

The other cookie harrumphed, turning away as if to hide the color on his cheeks, saying, “Well, wot are ye’ waitin’ for? Git! Git on wi’ it!”

Laughing. He and Edelweiss were both laughing. Together, and then Blackcurrant, Black Hyacinth, Pure Vanilla were all meandering over to them. Surrounding him. Standing in solidarity.

(He felt complete again.)

Tail snaking around Pure Vanilla’s leg easily in silent welcome, he said, “I will. But, just to be sure – this will be like a magical beacon. If you weren’t on the Institute’s radar before, you certainly would be once this is done.”

Gooseberry just gave him a flat look, saying, “Jus’ do it…”

Laughing sheepishly, Blackcurrant added, “As we told you…I think it’s a bit too late for that.”

“And then we can finally go have some fun!” Black Hyacinth cheered.

He nodded once, before adding, “And, a warning. As I alluded to before, the removal of the silver won’t be immediate. There will be a gradual lessening, and once we can stop the source, it will all be removed with time, but there will likely be some silver in the soil for a bit longer. And truthfully, I don’t know how much silver has leached into the leylines themselves. …The location is…helpful but…unfortunate. So…please continue to use the appropriate wells and filtration systems and just…be careful.”

He caught the various nods from the other cookies scattered about, but was soon distracted by Pure Vanilla’s hand creeping up to his face, fingers trailing gently over the icing that had scarred over his eye. There was a somber, almost severe, expression on the healer’s face and the emotion pounding away in the hollow behind his heart was one he was struggling to name. Vast and yawning and thrumming fiercely. Then, that hand was tucking flyaway silver strands behind his ear, before he was pulled into a kiss that was almost bruising, in its intensity. Desperate. When Pure Vanilla pulled away, he was left dazed and panting, a soft whine escaping him.

“Wh- wha’ was…tha’ for…?” He mumbled.

Pure Vanilla didn’t have the chance to explain. Edelweiss’ strangled voice cut in, “…please remember there are children here!”

“Hmph. Then why’re you the one who looks so put out? …I’ve seen sillier adults, at festivals, you know. Oooh, I know, it’s cause you’re the real itty-bitty cookie here, aren’t you? Haha – baby-Weiss-”

“'Cynth you little snot – get back here-“

“Let’s give them a moment of privacy, shall we, Goose?”

“Hah. …After tha’ display? Little late, don’ ye think?”

“Ooooh, jealous, are you?”

“Wha’?! Wha’ are ye’ sayin’? Argh! I’m comin’ I’m comin!”

He could feel the heat that must be radiating from his cheeks, and he wasn’t certain if he wanted to magic the ground to open up and swallow him whole, or remove the last few moments from everyone’s memory or demand Pure Vanilla kiss him again.

At least the other cookie’s cheeks were flushed a fetching tan. Arms, curling around his shoulders, before Pure Vanilla leaned heavily against him, face buried in his hair. He wrapped his own arms around the other’s waist, nuzzling gently against the other’s neck, purring softly.

“Nilla?” He asked. Then- he could feel it again. Gaping and yet beating a tattoo in the hollow behind his heart, until despair-desperation-determination resolved under his scrutiny. His claws tightened reflexively around the healer. “Pure Vanilla.”

This close, he could feel the shudder that coursed through the other. But Pure Vanilla simply shook his head and pressed even closer, before whispering, “’m sorry, Bluebell. I just…when you spoke on…Earthbread…I- …I couldn’t help but think- I-“ Pure Vanilla swallowed audibly, before shaking his head and then whispering, “It's more than just that, I mean- I’ve seen a map of Earthbread. …I thought I was imagining the resemblance.”

“…Oh.” Of course. Of course, you still hurt with your Knowledge – you know better, Blue! Swallowing back the guilt and shame, he moved to cradle Pure Vanilla’s face in his claws, choking out, “Forgive me, Nilla, I only meant – I didn’t think-“

But Pure Vanilla was shaking his head even more fiercely, hand moving to cup the claws against his cheeks, and then he smiled, weak and tired, but real. “No, Bluebell. I didn’t mean it like that. I can and will accept your each and every truth. Even the painful ones. …I will never condemn you for your Knowledge. Not now, not ever.”

It was a relief, to hear those words. And yet. The emotions- Pulling away just slightly, just enough that he might look upwards into milky gold-and-blue (so similar, yet so different, from his own), he asked again, “then why-?”

Pure Vanilla’s fingers trailed gently, feather-light, over his face. Smoothing over Algiz, on his brow, tracing the ridge of his nose, the curve of his cheek, the ragged edges of scar that spanned from brow to jaw. The taper of one pointed ear. His voice was tender, soft, sorrowful. “Sometimes…sometimes I think…of…of all the Gods of this world…lesser and greater…you are only one still worthy of the…reverence…of the title.”

Mouth falling open, mind blanking, he gaped. …How…how was…anyone…supposed to respond to that?!

Pure Vanilla laughed softly, a fond smile crossing his features, before something cheeky-not-his curled around the hollow of his heart, as Pure Vanilla poked gently at one of his fangs.

His jaw snapped shut with an audible click, and he suddenly found himself irrationally upset that the other cookie had somehow managed to remove his finger in time. But that was soon forgotten, when Pure Vanilla grasped his claw, brought it up to his lips to press a delicate kiss to his knuckles, and he couldn’t even be embarrassed in the face of all the tenderness. Not even when Pure Vanilla whispered, in that same melancholy tone, “…why should we love a God who does not love us?”

He swallowed, roughly. “…Gods don’t have to be kind, Pure Vanilla.”

“I know,” came that soft, soft voice. Fingers, tracing the crow’s foot over his eye, once again. Something strangely mournful, in the healer’s voice. “But is it so wrong of me, to hope that they are?”

***

Pure Vanilla hadn’t wanted to leave him, when he’d finally prepared to start the ritual. And, after everything that had just happened, he hadn’t had the heart to ask Pure Vanilla to do so. But this was also a delicate process that required intense concentration, so he’d relegated the other cookie to a boulder not that far away; but not before warning the other he would be tamping down on their connection, this time. …no need for a repeat of the last time he’d exposed Nilly to Knowledge like a fool.

He swallowed roughly a moment, willing himself not to dig his claws into his dough. He did not want to draw jam here, not when the magic already Knew him too well as it was. Not when he was trying to teach the leylines Cremefeld instead.

(But. He did not want to do this. Did not want to lose the only Hope he had, flickering like candlelight in his soul. But magic would always demand its price. …perhaps this was the price of a soulbond. Trying to still the shudder that wanted to rip though him, he turned away, eyes closing. He traced the thread of magic that stretched between them, glowing like sunlight. Like dawn. But dawn was so very similar to dusk, and the bond so fragile-)

(Light. Near overtaken by Shadow.)

(He was so cold.)

He blinked. Jam smeared onto his robes, fell to the grass below. Jerkily, he placed the final offering – silver – at his feet.  Then, he allowed his magic to unfurl (carefully, always so very carefully). He fell, slowly, into that cool meditative state that was halfway to Knowledge.

Assessing, gaze nearly clinical, he started sketching out the runes he’d need for the magic to run according to his purpose; calculating the area of effect. That stone is likely a boundary marker…needing to encompass Cremefeld entirely…so to complete the circle the area must necessarily extend… …… Must include the Spire, as well.

Mana circling within him, rising, sparking off him, blues and blacks and cyan and teal and silvers and the faintest hints of gold – a nebula given shape, stars, born and dying, time and space constraints yet suggestions – the lattice of Law and Magic that underpinned Reality; his Domain (what was Knowledge but the one who Knew the Truth-of-the-World – mutable and unmutable all at once) – grasp the leyline (his, they were His to know and touch, Happiness-Volition-Solidarity born of Cookies, Change begotten of Cookies and the Truth-of-the-World while Knowledge underwrote them all)-

Know Cremefeld. (The magic of the Leylines, at first strangely sluggish – ponderous, disjointed, stalling, lurching and tumbling, before – a crack – spilling, bursting - finally a rushing, rising tide – fasterfasterfaster heat and life and Power and LIGHT – following him; his power, his direction, his Knowledge, saturating the ground, the air, presence given form, pressure from emptiness – consuming the offerings.) Know Cremefeld. Only Cremefeld. (Quivering, tiny tendrils, trying to veer off course, interested in Knowing-) Not My Cookies. Not My Spire. NOT WHAT IS MINE. MINE. NOT HIM. HE IS NOT YOURS TO TOUCH- …why do you already Know what is Mine?)

(Gone. He wanted it gone. Away from that which is Mine.) Drawing up the Runes he needed – imprinting Uruz-Dagaz-Algiz-Thurisaz-Sowilo upon the Leylines – the magic – until it followed his will. (A simple Story. So very simple. But therein lay its Power. Power itself brought to kneel and change before Divine Knowledge that catharsis might become purification; complete the circle.)

Let it be Written.

(Let it be Done.)

The World Moved.

(Silver, leeching from the soil. Purified.)

(Leagues away, in an ivory tower, the Sun to the Academy’s Moon, a Moonstone cracked. (The first moonstone. The one created the first time forbidden knowledge was touched.) The bustling hive of activity stopped; marionettes with their strings cut. Cookies, staring in incomprehension a moment, before – noise. Voices, raised, calling, shouting, questioning, demanding, begging, Asking.)

(One cookie stood, calm and unperturbed, indifferently regarding the chaos unfold. His fingers drummed, once, against the fold of his crossed arms. “So,” he said, voice cool and controlled, “it seems it was true, after all.”)

Chapter Text

C’est l’Histoire d’une Vie (Love Story)

‘Out of his depth’ seemed too shallow a term. Never had he felt so viscerally, so undeniably, so absolutely out of his element.

He had gotten complacent.

Being with Blueberry Milk was easy. Natural. It felt right in a way that went beyond Soul Jams and soul bonds and magic and memory and hope. Blueberry Milk was home.

He’d thought he’d understood what that meant.

He hadn’t.

He’d thought he’d understood, back on that little sofa (this sofa) in his ‘sanctuary’ in the Spire. When he’d seen Blueberry Milk’s true face, for the first time – dough fractured and half crumbled and jam beading from his cyan eye – corruption (rot) rife in an unhealing wound. Then again, when he’d met ‘the Fount’ for the first time, as the other had fallen apart in his arms; pain and despair exposed and raw in his soul.

Or perhaps it had been a hundred different moments – tiny droplets of Truth like blessings – gifted to him with each passing day, as he learned of the Cookie – the impetuous, silly cookie, who sometimes talked too fast or too much; got on tangents; ran away from taking care of himself; could be as jealous or kind as any other cookie; was prone to self-recrimination and self-doubt. Who loved to teach, loved to learn, loved knowledge, love cookies. Who was still learning to grow and to change and to do the right thing, even when he didn’t understand the why, or see the purpose, if only because he still held love enough in his heart to try.

…or perhaps, it was with each successive glimpse of Knowledge; when he had finally seen the picture of Divinity. For he loved a God. A God that allowed himself to be small. That wanted to be small. A God that was so much greater than anything he had ever known. A God that yearned to be a cookie, desperately, and seemed one, more often than not. And yet. And yet. Power. Frightful, terrible power. And, in that power - moments of otherness. Blank eyes and flat voice; talking to an empty vessel to obtain ‘answers.’ Incomprehension at the pain that might be incurred at a loss of autonomy. Being held in that desperate, desperate grip as God was willing to throw everything else away, to hold onto the one thing that was His.

(Shadow Milk had felt nothing like this. And yet. There was still a twisted echo – a cookie willing to throw everything else away for the one thing he thought was His.)

How could a God understand mortal pain? (Fall.)

He'd thought he’d understood. What it was, to love fallen divinity. But now – to finally understand the full breadth of the other half of his soul – it was not quite fear. He was not afraid of his Bluebell. Never. Never. But oh, how he feared for his Bluebell.  (Something in him trembled.)

It felt like a premonition.

He didn’t know how to stop it.

***

“…Nilla?” The voice came with soft hesitancy, unease-uncertainty flickering in the shadow of his heart. He looked up, hands falling from his face back into his lap. He opened his arms in wordless invitation (request), and only finally truly relaxed when he was able to bury his nose in the other’s hair, inhaling deeply of the blueberry-winter crispness-nearly soured milk.

He smiled slightly as he felt fur gently snake around his leg; curls of hair tangle around his arms. His own grip tightened around the greatest comfort he’d ever known.

(How could he fear for falling divinity when the cookie in his arms felt so alive, so real, so here?)

“I love you,” he whispered, confession and promise, all at once.

He could feel the way the other cookie went completely still, from the gentle sway of Blueberry Milk’s tail up and down his leg, to the rumbling purr settled soothingly in his chest.

Silence. Utter silence.

(It was that last step; finally giving those words voice. Even if it had been an unspoken truth between them, shown in each action and in the feelings that echoed back and forth- it was still-)

He would not take the words back.

Shifting, accompanied not by the soft susurration of robes, but the faint drag of cloth. When he opened his eyes, he was met with the silver-grey of loose sleeves, bunched at the wrist. A dark doublet, or perhaps a jerkin, stylishly slashed through with highlights of cobalt. Blueberry Milk’s hair hung loose and swayed faintly in an unseen breeze, a galaxy haloing his face, the voids between stars and constellations blinking open, staring. Eyes. He looked like a midnight sky given form.

He looked so much like Shadow Milk it hurt.

The more things change…

And yet, not quite Shadow Milk. For Shadow Milk would have stared just as intensely, just as quietly, but not allowed himself to remain so. Shadow Milk hid himself, buried himself under theatricality and sound and noise in the same way he wore his clothes like armor, bearing not an inch of skin. Not like how Blueberry Milk’s collar hung lose, laces and fine cloth and embroidery palpable under his fingers – stylish.  A smear of shadow at his breast, where star-and-lock had once sat upon his chest. Shadow Milk had poked and prodded, at Truthless Recluse. Had touched but not let himself be touched. Not like how Blueberry Milk swallowed a gasp but didn’t shy away from the way his fingers traced out the shape of a keyhole at his chest, branded into the Fount’s very dough, as Algiz was upon his brow.

Locked away. Ever longing for Salvation. (Understanding. Compassion.)

(Shadow Milk had been too broken by his future-past to accept that offered hand. Could not believe in love and kindness, Compassion, freely given. How could he accept love, when he Knew there was nothing worth loving?)

His hands tightened around Blueberry Milk’s hips, gentle support for the cookie hovering over him. He looked – his own eyes, milky and blurred, one Eye open just enough for clarity, heedless of the throb in his temple – and Saw. Cyan eye and slitted silver pupil glowing softly, face just a little too blank, too still, something just beyond cookiekind.  Shadows and stars and Eyes in impossible hair, claws at his shoulders, tail around one arm, the Cookie and the Divinity and the Future and the Past all at once.

“I love you.” He said again, voice absolute.

(A Vow. To Blueberry Milk, to Shadow Milk, to all the Pain in between. But mostly, to himself. The verbalization of a fundamental axiom of his own existence. Pure Vanilla would always love Blueberry Milk. Would always love all the parts of Blueberry Milk, even when his Fount forgot parts of himself. For Truth would always love Knowledge.)

(And a warning. To those uncaring, cruel ‘Gods’ above. He had made his choice. If there were to be Gods – let it be the one he chose.)

“I love you.”

And then he leaned up to press a gentle kiss not upon the other cookie’s lips, but upon that mark of imprisonment upon his dough.

I love you. I will always love you.

***

“Heh heh, too much?” He asked softly, patting Blueberry Milk’s back a few times, scratching idly at the base of the cookie’s tail.

The other cookie had gone so limp he was almost liquid, sprawled out across his chest, draped over him like a blanket. The Fount was purring so loudly he was having difficulty talking, and so simply nodded instead. Then he paused, shook his head vigorously, and shoved his tail more under his hand, purring even louder.

“What are you wearing, by the way? …not that I mind, of course, but…it’s a little different from your usual getup? …although I suppose some of your lounge-wear around the Spire is similar…”

The purring spiked into a growl for a few beats, but even then, there was a rumbling undertone, as if all displeasure the other might express was being negated by proximity alone.

His laughter at that fact earned him a soft, pointed nip at his dough in complaint, instead. Uncertain whether to be shocked or amused (and steadily ignoring the tiny thrill the action had invoked) he scratched much more purposefully at the base of Blueberry Milk’s tail, smirking when the other went absolutely boneless, purring at a level that was more reminiscent of one of the Cookie Kingdom’s trains than anything else. “Okay, okay, sorry, no laughing at the silly cat…”

The other just made a half groaning half moaning sound and shifted even closer, pleasure-irritation-emptiness filtering over their bond. There was a pause, and he could almost see the gears turning sluggishly in the Fount’s mind, trying to work out some way to express his displeasure. He couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out again at how hard Blueberry Milk was thinking, until there was a sudden stripe of faint wetness along his neck, and he choked out a startled, “What the-?! Bluebell! Did you just lick me?!”

…his cat looked stupidly smug.

But two could play at that game, and he wasn’t going to deny that he had a bit of a competitive streak, especially when Blueberry Milk was just giving up all of his weaknesses so shamelessly. He remembered the way the other had nearly melted into him with a good scratch under his chin, never mind the response to having his tail pet – his other hand moved to scratch behind one tapered ear in tandem with the one tangled in the other’s fur …Blueberry Milk might as well be milk given form, at this point.

“…I think I win,” he whispered, before pressing a kiss to the crown of the Fount’s head.

(Blueberry Milk didn’t even twitch.)

It was easy for him to tell when the consciousness of the dazed cookie in his arms returned to Earthbread, even as Blueberry Milk continued to radiate pleasure-happiness-contentment with each pass of his hand over the other’s tail, or through his hair. Maybe it was in the slow, lazy flicks of his tail, or in the lengthening and evening of each slow breath accompanying that ever-present rumble.

But he didn’t want to let the Fount doze off, so he murmured, “You didn’t tell me what the occasion was?” He tugged lightly at the dark jerkin (at least he thought it was a jerkin? Maybe a doublet…) the other was wearing.

A tiny little headbutt, before Blueberry Milk’s cyan eye flickered open, and then the other tried to rattle out through his purring, “Fe-t-vl.”

He had to bite back a laugh at how disjointed the word was. His poor Bluebell, doomed to purr at the most inopportune times!

A glare from a scarred eye. …right…the soul bond would make it rather more difficult to hide his amusement. Deep, rich blue, forming in a gaseous cloud over his head, magic given form. His mouth opened in shock as he realized those shapes were probably- words.

Shaking his head with a half fond, half amused smile, he summoned his vanilla beholder to himself in a curl of magic, chiding gently, “petty much?” Because, really? Making the more than half blind cookie, read? Smug amusement-not-his coiled in the shadow of his heart.

Tracing over one ear, he turned his attention to the words that hung, in the air, reading, ‘The festival, in Cremefeld? Wanted to look…normal.’

Frowning slightly, hand stilling in the other’s hair, he murmured, “You don’t need to look ‘normal,’ love. …we’re just going to meet our friends.”

Quiet uncertainty-not-his, before the Fount tried again. ‘Not formal. Not the Fount. Just me.’

It was not quite…dismay…he felt, at those words. Or at least, not completely. Slowly, gently guiding the cookie in his lap to sit up, he tried to meet Blueberry Milk’s gaze, even as those same eyes kept drifting to the side. Softly, quietly, he asked, “Can you truly carve yourself up so easily, Bluebell?”

Blueberry Milk didn’t answer, but the resignation-loneliness-yearning was answer enough.

Pressing a soft kiss to Blueberry Milk’s brow, his nose, his lips, he leaned forward, the star on his own forehead pressing against Algiz gently. “…you can’t, not really, and I Know you Know that. …and one day, I hope you will finally believe the Truth: that it’s not necessary.”

You are loved, Bluebell. You.

***

The party was already in full swing by the time the guests of honor arrived. (Had been for hours, actually. But then again, this was a faerie tradition he could get behind, even if Goose stuck up his nose at it and hid his smile in his glass of ‘special juice.’)

But now, Goose was three cups in, and engaged in a strength contest with…Huckleberry. …the smith. Snorting, he poured out another cup for Goose when the other cookie inevitably lost and set it at the foot of the log he was perched on.

Turning, he cast his gaze around, and, yes, there was Weiss, with an exasperated expression as she tried to corral Black Hyacinth, who was vibrating with pent up excitement as he waited for Mr Blueberry and Mr Vanilla. He raised his own cup of watered-down juice in Edelweiss’ direction, unable to hide the amused bent of his smile. She shook her head at him, before her eyes narrowed and then with a truly frightening smile she bent down and- Oops. I have been had.

A tiny blur of white and red shot out from beside Edelweiss like a missile, and he gave a salute before getting up and trotting around to provide a suitable target for Caramel Apple. Catching the little cookie as she barreled straight into him, he caught her up and swung her round, grinning as she shrieked in gleeful laughter.

A last spin, and his eyes caught Lady Smith, relaxed and regal all at once, a Queen surveying her domain.

All his family, safe in one place. Peace at last.

Almost all the cookies he cared for.

But then, a truly shrill shriek from Caramel Apple in his ear, a sudden lull in the sheer volume of sound – music and laughter and chatter fading, and then-

“BLUE MR MAGIC-TAIL COOKIE!!!”

He looked around a little wildly, trying to stop Caramel Apple from wiggling out of his grip – that hadn’t come from beside Weiss- the sneaky cookie pointed up with a finger to her grinning lips-

He turned just in time to see ‘Cynth fall from a branch right onto Mr Blueberry’s head.

“HAHAHA! Did you see that, dear audience?! What an amazing, daring feat by our intrepid reporter! Our Mr Blueberry! So shocked – so startled! The perfect trick! You see, I have another trick, now-“

(Hands. Tiny cookie-hands tugging at his fingers, and the most pitiful expression he’d ever seen, on a little cookie face. He sighed, shaking his head, smiling.)

Good luck, Mr Blueberry.

He winced, at another, even more shrill, happy shriek.

“Ya’know, Ah’m feelin’ a mite sorry fer ‘im. ‘e’s ne’er goin’ escape those two. …ah, thank ye’.” Goose slid in next to him, snagging the cup of juice easily from his waiting hand.

He hid a smirk as Goose’s nose wrinkled at the watered-down juice, but the other then shrugged, and didn’t protest.

Nodding at where Mr Vanilla was very obviously not helping the Fount disentangle himself from the two children swinging wildly from his hovering form, he said, amused, “Looks like he’s got it all covered, though.”

“…does he really?” Weiss sounded particularly dry, as she slid in between them, smirking as Goose grunted and then nearly pitched backwards off their log. He grinned and gave the white-haired cookie a high-five.

Grumbling, Goose leaned heavily on Weiss, purposefully sloshing some of the juice in his cup onto her shoe with a smirk, and knocking her into him.

“H-Hey! Watch that! You…you…donkey!”

Goose paused for a single, crystalline moment, before barking out laughter. …he followed suit, until they were both squishing Edelweiss between them.

“Ah…Ah think…ye mean… ‘arse’…”

“…or…’ass’…”

“Or e’en ‘prat,’ lassie…”

“Argh! I hate you both!!”

“No you don’t-“ 

“-No you don’t!”

Leaning his head against Weiss’ as the laughter slowed down, he murmured, “This is perfect.”

A lazy smile curled over his lips as he felt Weiss squeeze his hand, as Goose squeezed at his shoulder. As he watched ‘Cynth and little Appy spin and shriek and play with the cookie who had saved them, all of them, before the three of them turned and ganged up on the cookie who had set all this in motion, identical toothy expressions on their faces.

“Yeah, I think he’ll be fine,” he whispered, smiling.

Goose snorted, jostling his shoulder. “Sap.” But he was smiling, too. Then, as if sensing that he was showing ‘happiness’ too obviously, Goose said, “But ‘e still looks too posh.”

Now it was his and Weiss’ turn to harmonize with a pair of identical sighs. He slapped Goose over the head as Weiss said, considering, “Think he’d let me take a look at his doublet? …That’s some rather fine embroidery, and that color-“

“Ach, hush, you-“

“Just because you have the fashion sense of a stump-!”

Tugging on one of Goose’s bangs while flicking Weiss’ temple and seriously considering just knocking their heads together, he said, “Children, please!“

“Yes, mom,” The pair chorused in exactly the same tone of voice.

…at least they were allowing him a moment to relish having all his loved ones and new friends safe in one place. He watched, in lazy contentment, as Blueberry Milk, Pure Vanilla, Black Hyacinth and Candy Apple all spun around in a line dance, the children laughing gleefully.

If it weren’t for the faint haze of blue magic, as Mr Blueberry supported himself when the exertion became too much, or the way he would hover a little higher, when a child crawled into his arms, swooping wildly, playfully, to entertain each brilliant smile, or the long, curling tail, that spun as he danced, clearly visible with neither a robe nor magic to hide it, he might have been any cookie that had joined the festivities.

(Or perhaps, this was proof that he was.)

“Ye know, Ah’ve been…thinkin’,” Gooseberry whispered, voice hushed. Glancing at the other out of the corner of his eye, he could easily read the determination and focus in Gooseberry’s gaze. He and Edelweiss frowned at each other a moment, before turning serious gazes upon their companion. Gooseberry was still staring at the Fount, eyes squinted, as if he were staring at something far, far too bright for mortal eyes.

“…about th’ Inst’tute. ...Th’ silver.”

He swallowed, hand reaching for Edelweiss’, clutching tightly.

Goose was still staring forward, watching, with that fierce expression and shaded eyes, as Blueberry Milk and Pure Vanilla came together in the dance – spinning around each other, palms pressed together, faces tilted towards one another, the tail of one and the robes of the other curved around each other – orbiting.

“They…they call ‘im Beast, you know. Shadow’d Beast. Fer ‘is ‘dark magicks’ an’ ‘slinkin’ away’ – 'hidin’ in th’ dark.'”

(Blueberry Milk bowed, deeply, to Caramel Apple as he moved away from Pure Vanilla in the line. Then, with a silly, fanged grin crossing his face, he shrunk in a burst of blue light, so that he might properly dance with the young cookie. The little girl’s delighted giggles echoed above the music.)

“I’…it’s abou’ ‘im. It’s gotta be. Th’ silver, th’ Inst’tute, gettin’ us ta’ move, Lord Assam- ‘e’s always been th’ real target.”

(The music swelled; the dancers changed again. Black Hyacinth and Blueberry Milk met in the middle, before the boy let out a whoop and pounced on the Fount, forgoing his turn at dancing to surprise the other and hang triumphantly off Blueberry Milk’s shoulders.)

“…I know Lord Assam. I Know Lord Assam. …’e can pretend all ‘e wants – claim ‘e’ll do it all fer ‘Gnosia’ or some shite, but I know. All ‘e cares abou’ is ‘imself – ‘is pride an’ ‘is ‘vision’ o’ Gnosia. …and th’ Fount ain’t in it. …’what use is there, in a broken ‘God,’ whose existence we will soon surpass, and whose ‘Knowledge’ we can claim through our own efforts? …the era of ‘the Virtues’ is over, and those Beasts are all that remain. So, let us be rid of them, and let the age of Cookies begin.’

(Released by Black Hyacinth, Blueberry Milk found himself face to face with shy young Honeysuckle. His tail curled uncertainly around his own leg a moment, before he smiled, a weak, gentle little thing, and held out one clawed, blackened hand, head bowed, eyes closed. Waiting.  Honeysuckle’s hand was trembling. But so too was Blueberry Milk’s. She reached out.)

“I di’nno ‘ow. By wha’ schemes. Ah’ jus’ know…there are so many worse ways ta’ ‘urt someone than jus’… force. Pain. An’ silver, magicks, this place – I mislikes the picture. Bu’ I…I dunno magic. Cannae go to Heidelbeere again. So…I’ll go North. Ta’ the place where all the folk who call ‘im ‘Beast’ gather. Amongst the Faeriewood, an’ the Fair Folk who forsook ‘im from th’ start.  An’ I’ll fi’g’re out the silver, at least.”

(Spinning away. Another hand, grasped. Another face, another friendly smile. A God – neither more nor less than a Cookie. A Cookie – any cookie – one of countless, innumerable mortal faces – and yet, here they met. Equals.)

“An’ ye’ will keep an eye on ‘im, aye? Both o’ ‘em? All of ‘em? Whilst I’m gone? …I’m afraid ‘e’s made it obvious – where ‘is weaknesses are. …even us, now. Wi’ all tha’s happened.”

(Return. Pure Vanilla, looking down; Blueberry Milk, looking up.)

His hand, clenching into a fist, until smooth, feminine hands straightened it out. Threaded through his own. A barely-there tremble, in words that carried surety, all the same. “We will.”

He swallowed, reaching out, holding onto his best friend’s hand desperately, as if he could keep the other cookie from putting himself into harm’s way. “We will.” Firm, resolute.

“Aye. I’ll trust ye’.”

(A kiss. Inevitable.)

Chapter Text

(--) Can’t Keep them all Safe (They will Die and be Afraid)

There had been a quiet tension in his Bluebell’s shoulders. Ever since that wonderful, magical day – when he’d held his God in his arms, whispered his devotions into His ear, danced with Him under the moonlight – the most beautiful cookie he’d ever known. Inside and out.

Time waited for no one.

(Gooseberry hadn’t even said goodbye. There had just been a message, left through a red-eyed, weekly smiling Blackcurrant, and a silent hole in a family that should have been filled. ‘Ah’ll be back, wi’ th’ secret o’ th’ silver, if ah’ can. So dinnae forge’ yer home, while’m gone, and yer rubbin’ elbows wi’ the fancy folks in Heidelbeere. An’ dinnae trust Lord Assam. ‘e means ye naught but ill.’

There hadn’t even been a letter to hold. Just words delivered through a friend. Blueberry Milk had stilled, face frightfully blank. There had been a quiet sort of horror-fear-uncertainty-determination in the other, in that first beat of stillness. Then, with trembling claws and tail half curved like he’d wanted to wrap around Blackcurrant in a hug, he’d reached out, before he’d frozen. It had taken his hand on Blueberry Milk’s back, Blackcurrant stepping forward to close the gap, before the Fount had finally been able to close his arms around the other. But he had. A sudden, crushing grip on Blackcurrant; a swift tuck of Edelweiss into his chest, and he’d whispered, stumbling over the words, ‘I will not ‘forget my home.”)

It had become difficult, to delay any longer, after that. Each moment spent in Cremefeld felt like a luxury they could ill afford.

Time waited for no one.

(Fate would have its due.)

***

For a moment, he could barely recognize the cookie standing beside his desk, wan and washed out, silent. Moonlight streamed through the large windows within the library; cold light casting unnatural shadows across Blueberry Milk’s face. The Fount looked like a ghost given form. Distant, ethereal, otherworldly – fragile.

Claws brushed gently against the rolls of parchment that littered the desktop. Haphazardly stacked books, letters, a quill still dripping ink onto a page bellow; the marks of a mind turning too fast for mortal thoughts to track.

Blueberry Milk did not acknowledge him at first, as he slid the tea trey onto one of the few unoccupied tables scattered around the library. (Chamomile and lavender with hearty rye bread. Gifts from Edelweiss and Blackcurrant. Reminders. Tethers.) Instead, he simply tapped once against the yule-wood of his desk, the sound ringing hollowly. A beat. Then, “You don’t have to come with me, you know.”

The words sounded thready. Distant. A chill blossomed inside him, deep within the recesses of his soul.

Frowning, closing the door behind him to keep out the draft that had been working its way through the Spire, he reached out, drawing Blueberry Milk towards the half-banked embers in the fire place. He stoked the flames to life, until well beyond gentle warmth and approaching sweltering heat. Then, he tugged the other cookie down beside him, arms wrapping firmly around Blueberry Milk’s waist as he settled the Fount in his lap.

He waited, quietly, hand smoothing up and down the other’s chest, as if he were tracing out the keyhole branded into the Fount’s dough. It was only after he felt the scholar relax, just slightly, the he said, firmly, “I would not leave you to face this alone.”

A tail, slowly beginning to tighten its curl around his leg. “I do not wish to see you hurt, because of me.”

He sighed softly, soaking up the warmth of the fireplace, staring into the flickering red-orange-gold as if the crackle and pop alone could teach him the words his Bluebell most needed to hear. Slowly, tasting each syllable before it was spoken (because he understood; because this wasn’t about whether or not he was strong enough to defend himself; they both Knew he was), he said, tone gentle, “I will always fear for you. For your well-being, your safety, your happiness. …because I love you. But I cannot – will not - cage you, no matter my own fears. So…I can only trust you, give you what tools I can – that you might keep yourself safe – and hope.”

A sigh. Heavier, tinged with exhaustion, but accompanied by a shudder before the other cookie simply eased. Then, shifting, as Blueberry Milk truly nestled into his chest, nose pressed into his dough, lips brushing gently against his neck, something self-deprecating and not his, in the shadows of his heart. “…I am a God, you know.” Blueberry Milk whispered softly into the silence, as if admitting a terrible sin.

“’Omniscient, but not infallible nor omnipotent,’” he quoted back softly at the other, hand sliding across the other’s chest gently.

The Fount laughed softly, a little wetly, and then murmured, “It doesn’t stop me from feeling like I should be able to do more, though.”

Arms tightening around Blueberry Milk, he shuddered and took a deep, calming breath of blueberries-winter crispness-nearly soured milk. He understood that feeling far, far too well. But, forcing himself to focus on the cookie who needed him now, he reached for Truth, (hoping the words were enough) and said, “I cannot tell you that Gooseberry will be alright. That I will be alright. That everything will go according to your wishes, or my hopes. But – I can tell you. We will try. We will all try. Because that is all anyone can ever truly do. …even you. God that you are.”

He swallowed, arms clutching near painfully around the cookie in his lap, before adding, “Even if you were to give yourself over entirely to Knowledge, bring the full weight of your magic to bear over all the cookies around you; trap us all in your Dark Moon Magic that we might move according to your desires – that you might keep us all safe; it would not give you what you want. What you need. You want us, Blueberry Milk Cookie. Cookies. …and that takes trust. Freedom. …letting us go. And daring to hope that will be enough.” 

A flinch; a rumbling, hurt growl. Too many emotions, roiling, deep within the shadow of his soul. A short, bitter whisper, felt more than heard. “Truth.”

He laughed, soft and wet, hid the tears beading in his eyes against starlight hair and thought he might understand how the cookie in his arms could grow to resent the Truth so much. “Yes. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, isn’t it.”

Fear-anger-desperation-despair-loneliness. “Just because it’s your Truth, doesn’t mean it has to be my Truth.”

His hands curled into the other’s robes, and he laughed, a sharp, bitter sound, more befitting of Truthless Recluse and the despair he’d thought he’d left behind. “Lie.” Then. “You told me, didn’t you? The Truth doesn’t care about our knowledge or acceptance.” He swallowed, and finally whispered, a plea, “Have faith, beloved. In cookies, and in the cookies that love you. In yourself. Lies have their place. I’ve learned that. But… do not give into a Lie born of Despair. That is…that is the one Lie I fear you should never tell.”

Stillness. Then something broken and jagged and lonely and not his, in his heart. Tears, dripping onto his dough. “You speak of my future as if it is something you already Know.”

Freezing, shivering, trying to shove down the yawning pit of terror opening up deep in his soul, (he saw them (whole) – he saw them (stained by Deceit) – together – what if it wasn’t enough – what if it could never be enough-). He choked out, “Bluebell, please- I beg of you- do not- I cannot-“

(I don’t want to I don’t- I can’t- Ican’tIcaN’TICAN’T-)

Shifting but he mustn’t let his Bluebell go- but then the Fount was hovering over him, pressing a bruising kiss to his lips, then fangs and- tears, his hands a vice around Blueberry Milk’s hips, desperation-despair-not his hollowing him from the inside out- “I Know, beloved. I Know. And- and I will not ask- but – please – you must not forsake me. Nor forget me. Our Love. You are everything to me. Do not turn away from me. It would break me.”

“Never. Never. You are my other half – I will always find my way back to you.”

(A chill. Something deeper, more all-consuming, than fear. Despair. His own.)

(A cookie’s face – broken – utterly shattered – as he’d rejected a union of souls. Destroyed himself, to escape. Extended a hand in friendship, in pity, in Compassion. Unknowing.)

(A face that would haunt him. Did haunt him. Lingered, a ghost at the edge of his subconscious.)

Desperation and despair. (His own.) His hands – clamping around the other’s forearms as he stared, wild eyed and panicked, taking in the blurry image of a cookie he knew and would know.

“Don’t forget, Blueberry Milk. I am from the future. You mustn’t forget.”

(Begging, the shadow within – as Fate loomed – a specter over his shoulder. A noose, tightening, around his neck.)

***

It was impossible to pretend that everything was alright.

(When he slowed down, for just a moment, to think-)

(He couldn’t.)

(What sort of useless Truth was he-)

Quiet words. (A distraction, a willful blinding, as he turned away from a Truth he could not endure.) “…Tools. …Teach me how best to help you? In Heidelbeere. With the Institute.” His arms tightened, clinging. But then again, Blueberry Milk was clinging to him just as strongly, claws scraping through his robes to prick at the dough below.

A fixable problem. Something, anything-

His hand, working through the other’s hair, passing down the Fount’s back, even as Blueberry Milk wormed a little closer. A cool nose against his neck juxtaposed with the warmth of the fireplace. Limbs and tail tangled up in his own. Familiar after so many nights sharing a bed. A comfort. His Fount was still here. In his arms. Not all hope was lost. He had to believe that. He had to.

A soft sigh, and the unhappy, self-soothing rumbling purr lessened some. His hand moved to scratch behind Blueberry Milk’s ear, just to encourage the sound to continue. Because it was grounding. Something he could latch on to. The noise picked back up and his hand moved to splay over the Fount’s back so as to better feel each vibration, to let the pleasant, calming sensation settle into his own dough. To silence the disquiet that plagued him. To bring him back to the present and the things he could still reach. And slowly, as sound and sensation soothed them both, Blueberry Milk’s voice came, quiet and halting. Rough with hidden tears. “I just…need you. Here. At my side. That’s all, Nilla. That’s all.”

That just made him think even more on things he didn’t want to contemplate. So, he said, aiming for levity but landing more in the realm of desperation, “Surely, I might be of some use to you, my Lord Fount? I don’t know if I ever told you, but I was a King once, you know. I do have some experience with this sort of thing – navigating politics, and such.”

“A King?” The other asked, words still half muffled in his chest, but the faintest traces of curiosity overtaking the quiet, lonely misery that still lingered across their bond.

“Yes,” he said easily (too easily). “Of the Vani- ….Vanilla…Kingdom….”

A tiny snort, spots of cyan-and-cobalt peeking out from the various dark shades and shadows that half concealed the cookie in his embrace. “…Nice. Very original, Nilly.”

“…Oh hush, you.” He mumbled into his Fount’s hair, but he couldn’t help the way something in him lightened, at that gentle tease. The way his lips quirked up into a half smile, and then a full one as that smile was returned. Weakly, but returned.

“King Pure Vanilla, of the Vanilla Kingdom…”

“…hey, it’s not as bad as some of my friends; King Dark Cacao, of the Dark Cacao Kingdom… the former Queen Hollyberry of the Hollyberry Kingdom; Queen Golden Cheese of the Golden Cheese Kingdom… all of my friends… all my friends?! …because White Lily just didn’t have a Kingdom of her own back then…”

Soft, quiet laughter. Snickering. Then, a slightly incredulous, “Was there just some sort of…naming convention?”

“What? No!” He held the other cookie closer to his chest, as if to muffle the laughter against his heart.

A quieter, almost wistful, “…would you tell me about them? These friends of yours?”

The words escaped of their own accord. Frightfully, brutally honest. “I want you to meet them.”

Blueberry Milk stilled, frozen, in his arms. Then, the Fount rose to hover above him, claws brushing his cheek, tucking hair behind one ear. He could barely see that dear, beloved face, so deeply cast into shadow. Caution, coiled in the shadow of his heart. “…really?”

His hand reached up of its own accord, traced along the corruption scar curving over the Fount’s cheek. “Yes,” he murmured, a confession. (Longing. Painful, unbearable longing. Because wouldn’t it be wonderful? To have this cookie he loved, with him, with everyone he loved? …without the future – that blade – hanging above their heads. …to have a future. He wanted it. …worse yet, once he started dreaming – he could see it.)

“Dark Cacao can be a bit grumpy, but he’s honest and reliable. Once you won him over, you’d have a friend for life. Golden Cheese is dramatic and generous to a fault and will always protect her ‘Treasures’ no matter what. She’s a bit prickly, sometimes, but she would respect you, as soon as she realized you have that exact same sort of zeal to protect what is yours. Hollyberry would welcome you warmly, no questions asked, friend and confidant and support. Probably drink you under the table first, just to prove she could – measure your mettle in her own way. And White Lily – oh, she would have no idea what to make of you – honestly, it would be rocky to start – but her curiosity would know its match; reflections – you two would change the world-“

His breath caught in his throat. There was a strange smile on Blueberry Milk’s lips. Awe, widening the other cookie’s eyes. Swallowed roughly, he added softly, as if the words were too fragile to be spoken any other way, “And the- …my… kids. Gingerbrave – fearless and kind. Honesty, forgiveness and determination in a cookie who never stops looking forward; all you’d have to do is honestly reach out and he’d reach back. Strawberry – shy, kind, observant; silent support and comfort, she’d keep you in those little spaces in between, where peace is most needed. Wizard -,” a laugh, pained and soft, “curious, forthright, practical and so in love with magic all at once; he’d ask so many questions, the best student one could ask for – he’d watch, silent protector, reserve judgment but give judgment where it is due; fair, slow to forget or forgive but always fair, in the end. …they would love you. I just know it. If you would only let them.”

The smile on Blueberry Milk’s lips had twisted and softened, somehow. Melancholy and pained and broken. A little too Knowing. Loneliness and yearning in his eyes, Hope-and-Despair echoing in the shadow of his heart. “…and you’ll be there? The honest heart, to keep us bright and true?” The Fount asked, voice gentle and tender.

He tucked a trailing strand of hair behind the other cookie’s tapered ear, and spoke a truth a Hope he yearned for, as easily as breathing, “Yes. Yes of course. …Together. …I would not be left behind…nor would I leave others behind. …Not ever again.”

***

It was easier, this time. Stoking the flames to brightness. Handing his Bluebell a teacup to reheat with a simple warming spell. Letting chamomile and lavender soothe and warm them both.

The gentle clink of claw on china, before Blueberry Milk set his tea aside and then nestled against him, making a pillow of him. “If you’re to come with me, it would be best to make sure you’ve some basic knowledge of the nobles and the Court, first. …ignorance can be a weapon, but it is oft double sided and not one I’d trust.”

Grimacing slightly at the memory of the unadulterated shock on Gooseberry, Edelweiss and Blackcurrant’s faces when he’d asked about ‘Lord Assam,’ he nodded. “I agree. …I have been trying to learn what I can of the premier noble families and the general history of Gnosia, I assure you.”

“Oh, really?” Blueberry Milk’s lips quirked into a fanged little grin. “Pop quiz! Do share with the class?”

He smiled, a little helplessly. The Fount felt positively too eager. A cat in the cream. Hiding his amused affection in the other’s hair as Blueberry Milk’s tail started waving gently, he straightened up, as if he were back at Blueberry Yogurt Academy. Perhaps, in a way, he was, what with the founder of that very same academy quizzing him so earnestly, something bright in his eyes.

Affecting a studious expression, he said, “Well, there are the Four Pillars of the Court – the Four Great Houses – for one. First, House Sinensis, known for their unwavering devotion to Gnosia. Full of generals and statesmen and judges; lords for whom the wheel of state turns. Then, their equal and opposite, House Arabica; inextricably tied to the Institute; full of magisters, scholars and many a …Princeps?”

Blueberry Milk nodded easily, the motion more of a nuzzle against his chest. “Yes. Princeps is the highest rank among the mages of the Institute. First there are students and apprentices, still in schooling; then Fellows – they’re technically mages but subspecializing and still in the process of writing their dissertations and theses. Next the Magisters, full-fledged mages and experts in their chosen field, with the Princeps chosen from amongst that small number perched at the very top.” The Fount flashed a quick smile, adding, “You’d be a Magister I’m sure, of White Moon Magic, subspecialized in Light and Healing magic both. Anyway, you can easily identify a cookie’s rank by the number of knots upon their belt; one for students all the way to five for the Princeps.”

Humming, simultaneously a little curious and bemused by the need for ranks in the first place, he opened his mouth, only for Blueberry Milk to brush a claw against his lips, saying, “No, none of that. You’ve two more Houses to go.”

Pouting, before kissing the digit playfully, he dutifully continued. “Fine. Third, we have House Anacardium, as old and revered as House Sinensis. The cookies of the cloth, Templars and Cardinals both. They helped to establish the Church and codify its teachings, including the worship of the Virtues and celebrating the ‘Witches Most High.’”

With a tiny, thoughtful little frown, mind going back to that horrible little revelation in the field near Cremefeld that he never wanted to see again, he brushed Algiz on the Fount’s brow gently, before adding, “…and while I might applaud their recognition of a God worth knowing, I do still vehemently disagree with the premise that a Virtue’s worth is little more than a footnote in service of the Witch who baked them. …at this point, there is only one whom I consider worthy of the title of ‘God’…”

(Blueberry Milk choked; what had started as a gentle color to his cheeks and shyness-not-his in his heart had swiftly blossomed to brilliant indigo – a truly fetching shade of blue. Laughing softly, he traced over the tapered tip of one brightly colored ear, and let his God secret away his embarrassment against his neck, threading his fingers through long, curling, clinging strands, even as he could feel something a little more like preening, like pride, coiling in the shadows of his soul.)

(It was sobering. Was this why Shadow Milk had sung his own praises, lauded his own accolades? Paraded around like that berry-bird – a peacock? And yet it had felt procedural. Performative. It had become increasingly self-evident that Blueberry Milk had little to no self-worth to speak of. And Shadow Milk? When stripped away of his masks and lies and cruel tricks and laughter…Shadow Milk simply hated himself. Was this part of the reason why? Because he was a God too used to being a tool? Worth in his words, in the ties that bound him, rather than within himself? But did it matter that he was a God? …any cookie whose value was in his use would feel the same.)

Scratching gently at the Fount’s scalp, he continued, “Last, but certainly not least, is the mysterious House Gentian, as old as House Sinensis and among the first cookies if ‘The Rise of the Virtues, A History of the First Age,’ is to be believed. …cookies with wings, whose ingredients were often flora, and a house – or so it is said – with ties to those cookies who left your woods, and retreated beyond the First Silver River to establish their own nation, so long ago.”

“…the first of the Fair Folk of the Faeriewood,” Blueberry Milk said, nodding quietly.

“Faeries,” he agreed. Gently tracing along the curve of the Fount’s brow, trailing across the scarring that branded his Bluebell, he added, “I didn’t realize the Faeries were so intrinsically tied to your lands.”

Humming, leaning into his touch, Blueberry Milk spoke softly, lips twitching into something melancholy. “My brothers and sisters and I, we were amongst the first cookies baked by the Witches. …I make no understatement when I say we are some of the greatest. Are the greatest. We are… the keepers of Divine Essence. That which Cookiekind needed to thrive. The Willpower to carve out one’s own path. The passion to seek out one’s own Happiness. Companionship that no cookie need be alone. Change and memory, that neither cookie nor the world might stagnate. And, the Knowledge to turn hopes and dreams into reality.

“When we first settled into our role as Virtues, we found those places most in need of our purpose. Spice went to the deserts of the far east and to the cookies most in need of change and growth. Salt went to the flatlands and the northern coast; seeking the cookies that most needed unity  lest they destroy themselves. Flour went to the distant mountains of the south; a place where those who sought her out would find their own determination and resolution along the way. Sugar went towards the wetlands, that she might remind those cookies working so desperately to always remember that which they were working for - their own happiness. …I stayed as centrally as I could, for it seemed all cookies needed Knowledge equally.

“But there was more to life than just us and the cookies for whom we were baked. Life from more than a Witch's oven. There were the Wizards and the cookies they baked, so similar and yet so different from us, and, to return to your initial point, there was …’the one who came before.’ The Fair Folk, the Mermaids, the Elementals, in some ways even the Dragons - they are all existences born of the Light and Life Magic of Earthbread itself. All attuned to the natural world or some fundamental aspect of it. The Faeries were baked from the Life inherent to the trees and brooks and stones that are all that remains of a cookie who never knew life, but was, in some aspects, Life itself. They made the forests of the Lactenwald their home, well before the Witch-sent, oven-baked cookies came.

“But those new cookies were my purpose, and they sought me out, regardless. Built their homes and cities, their farms and fields. And in that process, it was inevitable that some of the 'Life' the Faeries valued was...changed. Forests were destroyed for homes, rivers dammed for farms, stones turned into walls and boundaries. I don’t regret it. I can’t. It was my purpose. …I tried to bring wisdom, as much as Knowledge. ‘Take what you need, and no more.’ ‘Give back what you owe.’ ‘Everything in Equilibrium.’ But, well, as you can imagine, the Faeries had their own way of life, and it was quite different from the one my cookies were creating. So, there was friction. …and when they wished to leave, headed north to some of the lands Salt had claimed, I let them go.”

He frowned, pulling the Fount closer still, considering. “…but…they still have ties to House Gentian? There are still…faeries, among your people. Black Hyacinth, Lady Smith, Caramel Apple; even Edelweiss must hail from a faerie lineage, with her coloring.”

A tired sigh, as Blueberry Milk leaned into his embrace. “Not all Faeries left, Nilla. Cookies are just…cookies. Regardless of whether they were oven-baked or tied to the life magic of Earthbread. They all want different things, seek different answers, have different ‘Truths.’ You Know this. Even those that did leave…they were not immune to a cookie’s desire for Knowledge. Just as they were not immune to the drive to pursue their own ideals, to chasing their own happiness; found joy in company, lived and crumbled in equal measure. …we are Virtues because we are fundamental. In a different way than the Dragons might be, perhaps, but we are fundamental, all the same. A difference of opinion on how to live, a difference of origin, doesn’t change that fact.”

“Then why?” He asked, the words sounding almost desperate. “Silver comes from the Silver Ki- Mountain. Why are they cooperating with whomever – the Institute? The Courts? House Sinensis? Lord Assam? They cannot – a grudge? But over something so long ago?”

Claws, cupping his face gently; lips, pressing against his brow. “That is what we must go to Heidelbeere to determine. And we shall, Nilla, we shall.”

***

A rough, clawed hand, threading their fingers together, before Blueberry Milk said, soberly, “There is one last thing I fear we should address, before we leave for Heidelbeere.”

He did not quite stiffen, exactly, but he did curl the Fount a little tighter against his side. This entire conversation, from start to finish, had been too heavy, too filled with unknowns and new stressors – maybe Blueberry Milk could feel some of his anxiety, because the other cookie brought his hand to his lips, kissing tan dough softly, saying, “Peace, Nilla. It’s just – I’ll let you come. I’d rather you did, in truth. I just – you do understand – you’d be tying yourself to me. Indelibly. …there would be no going back, after that.”

There was a moment of near complete incomprehension. It seemed…an almost ludicrous point to address so blatantly. “I am already indelibly tied to you, Blueberry Milk Cookie. There is no denying it. Moreover, I do not want to.”

He could feel the other cookie’s regard upon him, sense the solemnity of the moment through their bond. It felt almost as if Blueberry Milk were looking for the lie, not because he believed he would find one, but because it had become second nature. Then, the Fount was curling into his side, nestling against his chest. Claws brushing over his heart, before there was a hesitant, barely felt pressure, against his Soul Jam. Lips, there and then gone, between one moment and the next. A sensation so profound it touched upon his very core but was gone before he could process it. Just – feel. Echo and afterimage, and indulge in – Light.  Iridescent and popping and warm. Sitting in an endless void, watching the birth and death of innumerable stars. Being cradled by the universe itself.

(It was finding Home. Safety and compassion and acceptance. Soft and small and slightly cool to the touch. That precious missing piece, finding him, gifted to him, after all this time.)

A soft, gentle purring. Soothing. At peace. Happiness-hope-love and the barest beginnings of faith curling, glowing softly, in the shadow of his heart. (Illumination.)

“Sometimes, I fear your kindness is going to crumble me, and not you, dear heart. And yet, I would not have you any other way.”

(A chill. A warning. His hand shuddered to a stop, resting in the blues and silvers of Blueberry Milk’s hair. Foreboding, deep in his soul. His kindness, his compassion, his patience and perseverance, these were his greatest strengths. His mercy. And yet, who was his kindness for? For Blueberry Milk Cookie? …or for the cookie himself who could not yet accept the most painful Truth he had ever known?)

Chapter Text

What if I’m the Problem that’s been Hiding all Along? (What if I’m the one who Killed You?)

The day they were to go to Heidelbeere dawned cool and grey. Clouds hung low over the horizon. It felt as if the world itself were on the precipice of some great beginning.

(Poised, upon a cliff face, wings outstretched. Ready to fly – or fall.)

Blueberry Milk had spoken of a coach. His lips had quirked into an attempt at a smile that was more akin to a grimace that knew better than to exist so openly. He had added, half to himself, that it would add to the ‘pageantry’ of it all. That adhering to the script was in itself a ‘warning.’ But there it was. Waiting.

It had had him putting away the creams and browns of undyed cotton-candy wool that he’d become accustomed to, during his time in the Spire. Instead, he’d turned to the robes he’d obtained from his Awakening. He’d not worn them since that first day he and Blueberry Milk had ventured to Cremefeld and finally settled the issue of the silver in the milk. Hadn’t felt the need to do so. The people of Cremefeld were open and welcoming to both Pure Vanilla and Blueberry Milk. So much so that he’d forgotten that his presence would necessarily reflect upon his Bluebell, as well.

But this? This was different.

This was performance.

Whether it was by necessity or natural inclination didn’t matter. Not anymore. Because the truth of it was his Bluebell had split himself up into tiny manageable pieces, had different ‘faces’ for different occasions, and the ‘face’ needed here would be ‘The Virtue of Knowledge.’ (That cookie who stood apart. Divine. Distant and untouchable through age and purpose and expectation – that wall those other cookies had built around him.)

But now, he was here. A bridge. An equal.

(His Bluebell was not untouchable. Was not some larger-than-life existence that must be held at arm’s length.)

Please. Let them see. Please- …do not let him break alone.

(A prayer – to no one. He’d not beg it of the Witches. Not anymore. To Earthbread, with its ties to Faeries? To Fate – that enemy looming ever closer?)

(He didn’t know.)

(All he could do was beg the world to be – kinder. And then see to it himself that it was so.)

So, he’d decked himself in white and gold. Had brushed his hair till it gleamed. Had carefully arranged the miter upon his head; the long, trailing vestments around his shoulders. And he’d made sure his Soul Jam sat, in pride of place, upon his breast.

(Let the world know that Knowledge had its helpmeet, at long last.)

(He would not hide. Not from this. Never from this. Be it Knowledge, or Knowledge-that-sought-Deceit, he would never forsake his other half. Would always reflect his love’s Truth, so that Knowledge would never want for a mirror with which he might see himself.)

…he hoped Blueberry Milk wouldn’t mind this attempt at a statement of his own.

A rustle of cloth, and he turned from his ruminations and the entryway, smiling.  And froze, his vanilla beholder’s eye widening in tandem with his own.

“…Nilla?”

He had seen ‘the Fount’ before. Had seen the Fount as he truly was – tail curling and claws trembling, half shattered by corruption and loneliness and tainted by a gaping pit of despair. He had also seen the Fount as he wished to be seen – serenity and poise and control, ragged edges and ‘unnatural’ parts hidden away along with his soft underbelly.

(And he’d been allowed – permitted – to drag those soft, tender bits to the surface. Because Blueberry Milk loved him enough to stop hiding.)

But this? This was The Fount. The Virtue.

(He had seen this God before. In a statue rising out of a pool of milk. A dream? or perhaps a memory. Something grandiose – something too perfect.)

(A caricature of a cookie that did not exist.)

Face unblemished – not only by corruption, by scarring – but also by tears and fatigue and exhaustion. Smile gentle, serene, empty. Hands, not claws. No clingy, affectionate tail.

(He understood why every statue he had ever seen had been faceless, now. There was no emotion in that distant expression. The cookie before him could very well be little more than a faceless oracle. A facsimile of a living, breathing cookie; imitating life.)

It was jarring.

Disturbing.

This would not do. Not at all.

“…Pure Vanilla?”

(But that voice? That voice was one he Knew. That quiet uncertainty, that soft hesitancy, that was all his Fount.)

(Swallowing roughly at the memory of a desperate, grieving voice; ‘I was supposed to be perfect,’ he could not help but wonder: Was this what it meant, for Blueberry Milk to be a perfect, ‘normal cookie?’)

He reached up, hand gently tracing along the curve of one cheek, where scarred icing should have been. Blueberry Milk leaned into his touch. Gently, fingertips traced along unblemished dough to tuck a flyaway silver strand behind one ear, then trailed downward, along the midnight blue galaxy of the other’s hair, avoiding the small crown perched delicately in soft strands. No Eyes peaked open, but one strand did curl, briefly, around his fingers. He sighed softly (in relief?) whispering, “Hullo, Bluebell.” He could almost imagine the soft, barely-there rumble that should have accompanied the motion.

Pulling back to take one well-formed hand into his own, he asked, “No illusion, this time?”

Blueberry Milk shook his head quietly, saying, “Only when necessary for my hair. …Illusions can be broken. Through touch, willpower, observation; it matters not. Illusions are made to be broken. Here…it would only be one more weapon held at my throat. …these cookies, they are not like the people of Cremefeld, Nilla. I will not trust in their ‘good will.’”

He frowned at that, concern rising to the fore. “Do you believe someone means you ill?”

There was a moment when the calm, empty serenity of Blueberry Milk’s gaze sunk into exhaustion. The other cookie closed his eyes. “I am withholding judgement. There is little regard between us, and what respect or affection remains is tainted by fear and anger… disdain.”

How could his Fount look simultaneously so distant and so small, all at once? Tucking that blank, near expressionless face into his neck, he murmured, “I am here, Bluebell. Ever at your side. On your side.”

A hand, reaching up, brushing softly against the Soul Jam at his chest. It sent a tiny thrill through him, although nowhere near the sensation of magic pulsing through it, or Blueberry Milk’s lips pressed, so fleetingly, against it. “Mine.” The other cookie breathed, softly. Then, the Fount asked once more, hesitant uncertainty in his tone, “are you sure? …you will be irrevocably tied to me.”

Apparently, the statement he was making with the Soul Jam was obvious, then. Good.

He smoothed the other’s hand out, around his Soul Jam, until the crystalline gem was cupped in Blueberry Milk’s palm, his own hand wrapped protectively around both. The Fount shivered softly. Or maybe he did. A slight lessening, of the tension in slim shoulders. Lips, pressing against his collar. Humming, he replied, soft and simple and true, “I already am, love.” 

***

Walking out to the coach with Blueberry Milk revealed a carriage and not a coach at all, but he still almost drew to a stop at how ornate it was. Not gaudy – not like some of the vehicles or other conveyances he had seen in the Crème Republic. No, the carriage was as muted in color as most of the clothing he’d seen – Blueberry Milk, who seemed to be the only one who tended towards deep blacks; the various whites, creams, tans and browns of the villagers of Cremefeld. It matched the aesthetic of the muted coloring of the Lactenwald, the foggy mornings, the milk mists that clung to the ground.

(Oddly, it made him think of the muted coloring of the Silver Kingdom. Of Faeries. They still reflect each other.)

Instead, the elegance came from the material – this was clearly ash-wood, used so sparingly in his own time due to rarity – and that decorative inlay was white chocolate, molded and crafted into intricate floral patterns, into blueberry birds and sugar cone-deer and even tiny cake-foxes. The white gold of a radiant sun, embossed on the side paneling. The artistic arcs of more white gold, curving, tiny symbols that could barely be seen against the pale coloring of the carriage body- “Wait. Is that- an array?”

A hand, gently tucking his own into the crook of an elbow, accompanied by a faint curl of amusement-not-his, in the shadow of his heart. “What do you think?” Blueberry Milk’s face was still calm, but there was the barest flicker of a smile on his lips.

Vanilla beholder peering closer, squinting a little, he caught sight of Ehwaz-Raidho-Algiz in quick succession before his attention was arrested as a cookie jumped down from the seat at the front as they approached. Like many of the cookies before, this cookie was also clad in muted colors, soft pearl grey with that massive, stylized sun emblazoned upon the front in white-gold. Not a mage given the lack of knots hanging from the belt at his side.

The cookie was stone faced. Expressionless. But at the sight of him – at the Fount’s side, at his hand tucked into Blueberry Milk’s elbow, the Soul Jam at his chest – his eyes widened a fraction. Expression schooling itself into something wooden, he swept into a stilted bow, little more than a stiff incline of his head, towards the Fount, saying, “my Lord.” There was another beat of silence, before he added, “I’ve come to take you to the city, as requested.”

Blueberry Milk simply stared impassively at the other cookie for a moment, before barely nodding. The Fount’s hand tightened around where it was resting on his own, and frustration-dismay-resignation bubbled between them.

It was impulse, that spurred him forwards. Barely cognizant of the instinct that had him saying, “Thank you, it’s much appreciated.” Ignoring the blink of shock from the other cookie, he instead led the Fount towards the carriage door, saying, “I’m assuming it’s magicanical engineering? Some sort of protective array for travel?”

The tiny, gentle smile as Blueberry Milk helped him into the waiting carriage was all his Bluebell.

“Yes. I requested that the array be added to all vehicles when the Institute asked me to make it. Its primary function is for safe travel, but I did add some smaller counter-balanced arrays for temperature modulation as well as some other comforts-”

He let the other chatter on unimpeded. Watched, as Blueberry Milk smoothly climbed into the carriage himself, a sweep of deep blue magic following in the wake of one gesturing hand before the other settled down carefully on one of the plush seat cushions. It was only after he’d taken his seat beside his Bluebell, rather than across, and the Fount had rapped on the wood paneling that the carriage lumbered forward with a quiet lurch on well-oiled wheels. The sound of biscuit-horses could be heard outside.

“…Nilla?” It was the quiet, tremulous waver that had him turning quickly to his companion.

Blueberry Milk was sitting, not quite stiffly, but as straight as his dough would allow, hands folded neatly in his lap. His smile was soft and empty. (He hadn’t thought gentleness could be painful. Not until he was forced to contend with the emptiness that might exist behind it.)

(This was no smile. This was reflex attempting to hide anxiety-uncertainty-shame-resignation.)

Wrapping his arm around Blueberry Milk’s shoulders he guided the smaller cookie to lean into his side. The relief-not-his that coiled in the shadows of his heart was near painful, in its intensity.

Gently grasping one pale blue hand in his own, he traced over smooth, unblemished fingers, and allowed himself to imagine the imperfections of half charred, corrupted claws.

He spoke quietly, as Blueberry Milk’s head came to rest against his shoulder. “I was just thinking on how your mastery of runes – of magic – always amazes me. One of my cookies is perhaps the preeminent magicanical engineer – they would have loved this.”

Blueberry Milk twined their fingers together, asking, a little bemused, “You don’t have anything like this?”

He frowned thoughtfully, before letting his mind drift back, towards Blueberry Yogurt Academy; the construction and heyday of the Vanilla Kingdom; the modern amenities of the Crème Republic, “…No, I mean- I believe we do have arrays like this. Certainly, vehicles with temperature modulation, arrays to reinforce structure and form. But I don’t know…if it’s this one.” His hand tightened around Blueberry Milk’s, his voice half a whisper as he said, “…we’ve lost so much.”

Blueberry Milk shifted even closer, body angled towards him, and he realized with a start that it was exactly the same position that would have allowed the Fount’s tail to curl around his leg, if the other hadn’t shapeshifted it away. The scholar curled his arms around one of his own, instead. “…what of the…Academy?” Something pulsated, in his chest. Anticipation, perhaps. Tinged with something that was not quite fear. Dread? “You said…you attended?”

His arm slid from the Fount’s grasp to curl around the other cookie’s back, tucking the scholar even closer as a bewildering medley of nostalgia-shame-guilt coiled inside him. (Which Blueberry Milk could clearly feel, given how the other cookie stiffened, sitting up and twisting to look at him.)

(He had to answer, now. How could he do otherwise, when his heart had already betrayed him?)

“I…it was…destroyed.” He began, haltingly. “I attended…centuries ago, now. …centuries from now?” His lips twisted into a humorless little smile, as he added, more quietly still, “One of my dearest friends – White Lily – and I, we attended together. I met her there. She was…brilliant. So focused. So driven. So curious. She so, so desperately wanted to help cookies – make them better, stronger, more durable. She was…so bright,” he added softly, half to himself.

(Blueberry Milk’s hand tightening around his own, nearly to the point of pain, had him shaking his head slightly and continuing.)

“We were – young. Foolish. I’m sure you know how it goes, with students who are just a little too intelligent, a little too bored, and have too much ambition, too much arrogance, too much confidence in their own abilities, and know exactly what they want. …I didn’t stop her. Even when I realized that I should. I thought my presence would be anchor enough – I thought I understood her – but I understood nothing at all.”

Closing his eyes, uncertain when they’d even opened, he whispered, “Dark Moon Magic. She’d used it in – some array – or, some other, complex working. But it was – violent. Uncontrolled. Destructive. Tore the world apart; shredded it at the seams. Monsters flooded the area, the town beyond; magic…changed things…I don’t rightly understand what happened. But, by the end of it all, all of the staff, many of the students – those who couldn’t…escape…lost their lives. Transformed into specters, ghosts, apparitions. And they couldn’t…move on. Not until…many, many years later. Although, from what I understand, some still remain. The final headmaster – before catastrophe – Bachalomoth, the Archivist, the Alchemist, some apprentices…they’re all that’s left.”

He couldn’t look at Blueberry Milk. Not only because of the guilt and shame that clung to him, but also because of the waves of emotion-not-his that clenched and burned in his chest like a physical thing. It was so much, all at once – horror-shock-irritation-jealousy-rage-pain-despair-grief-hatred-guilt that simply overflowed out of the other like a geyser. Uncontrolled. (The bond was a good thing. He would never deny that. But never had it been so…overwhelming.)

He didn’t know what to do with the flood of Blueberry Milk’s emotions, let alone how to comfort him, never mind understand them. But habit had him coiling his Bluebell into his lap, because that was almost always how they ended up.

Blueberry Milk let him. Relaxed, ever so slightly, when his nose was pressed into the high collar of his white robes. With only half a mind, his hand curved up and down the Fount’s back, threaded through the other cookie’s starlight hair. Blueberry Milk’s emotions were too much, but they were still important. Enough to try, “It could never be your fault, love.” That last had been…guilt, hadn’t it?

The other cookie stiffened, spine rigid. Despair-self-loathing-guilt-shame, coiling in the shadows of his heart. Soft, bitter laughter, as if each sound were a knife, slicing into fragile dough. It was a sound he’d not heard from the other cookie, not even when he’d known the Fount as Shadow Milk. And yet – he could almost imagine – Shadow Milk’s half manic, hysterical laughter layered over-top, hiding this painful sound below.

“I made Dark Moon Magic.” Blueberry Milk whispered brokenly, fingers nearly claws, curled too tightly into the folds of white-gold robes. “I should have been there. It’s mine. They’re both mine. Where was I? …I’d never – never just – leave. Even if they forsake me entirely – write me from history, erase me from the books – Blueberry Yogurt Academy is still mine. MINE.”

He shouldn’t have said anything. To speak of the future was to presuppose the question of Blueberry Milk’s place in it.

He could feel the beginnings of panic, fraying at the edges of his mind. Ash, on his tongue. Lies did not taste, not truly, but sometimes… it felt almost as if they did. Sometimes cloying and too sweet and overripe, dribbling down his throat. Bear jellies befouled, but just right enough to be eaten all the same, only to be left to deal with the consequences. Alluring, addicting, until there was nothing left but regret and self-loathing.

But then, there were lies like this. Spiraling out of his control (but he couldn’t stop- mustn’t stop= what if he stopped?), ash that choked him, the scent of death in his nose, the shattered remains of cookies long crumbled in the air panic-self-loathing-regret-fearFeaRFEAR-

Blueberries, in his nose. The fresh crispness of a winter night. Nearly soured milk. A familiar band of tension, around his leg. Rumbling, in his ear. Vibrations, under his hands. Tiny little threads of hair, curved around his fingers.

Blueberry Milk was still here. Still safe. Still whole.

He still had time.

“I’m sorry,” The Fount whispered, guilt-not-his beginning to curl in his subconscious. Claws curled around him even more tightly.

Shaking his head fiercely, he said, “It is not your fault.”

“But you asked-“

“I am a coward.” He whispered, Truth bitter on his tongue. “Who cannot endure to see you hurt.”

Lips, still clumsy, still inexperienced, pressing against his own. A strange urgency in the ‘don’t say that,’ that accompanied the gesture. And then, “It’ll be okay, I’m sure, please don’t be so hard on yourself-“ LIES-

A shudder. Bitter, half hysterical laughter of his own, and the words were pulled from him. Confession to his God. “I have been thinking – I cannot avoid it – I fear It must be true – ‘deceit is kindness unto ourselves.’”

He could feel the other cookie stiffen, frozen. Shock-fear-horror-shame-urgency snaking between them. His arms curled tighter, more desperately still, around the figure in his embrace. “Not you, beloved.” Shame and a familiar self-loathing beginning to rise to the surface, he tried to find equilibrium, to breathe, even as that familiar prick of claws at his back, tail curled around his leg grounded him. Purring, at his ear, against his dough. Soothing. Relaxing; a familiar comfort he needed. It worked and he hated himself even more for it. My Bluebell hadn’t wanted to reveal this. And yet- because of me, because I can’t handle the cost of my own choice he still- for me- I hate this. I hate this.

(But it didn’t matter, how much he hated himself, or the situation. Because the Truth was that Blueberry Milk’s sacrifice, seemingly-inconsequential as it might have been, had comforted him.)

…why must Blueberry Milk Cookie always pay the jam-debt for someone else’s sins? …for my sins?

Claws, trembling ever so slightly at his cheeks. A forehead, pressed gently against his own. Whispered words. Soft, tender. Benediction. “Then tell me. You- you don’t have to…bear this alone. You are not alone. Together, right? I have…found- realized- …we are better together. You…taught me that.”

He moaned. A soft, pained sound, because he hurt. Everything about this situation…hurt. (Choices…often hurt.) He didn’t recognize the tears dripping down his cheeks until soft lips tried to kiss them away.

It hurt.

Kind. His Bluebell was always so kind.

He didn’t deserve it.

“I want to make love to you.” He mumbled, almost dizzy; non-sequitur and honest Truth all at once.

Shock. Bewilderment-embarrassment-wonder-warmth-yearning threading through the shadows of his heart.

Blueberry Milk, looked utterly poleaxed, an enticing shade of indigo coating his cheeks, his ears, his neck. His clothes, deliciously rumpled- “Here?!”

He laughed. Soft, warm, a little tearful, embarrassment-honesty-love glowing brightly within him. Nuzzling against Blueberry Milk’s hair, sitting his favorite cookie in all the world in his lap properly, he finally, truly relaxed. Equilibrium once more. His hand passing up and down the other’s chest. Soothing and a promise, all at once. “No, you silly thing. I only meant- um, well. …I meant it. I won’t take it back.” He paused a moment, and then his hand slid gently from chest to belly. “…does it bother you?”

He could feel the heat radiating from the other’s cheeks, even as Blueberry Milk hid his face away in his neck. There was something warm and bubbling radiating from the Fount’s soul, a shy unsure-eagerness that only seemed to feed the butterflies and want multiplying in his own abdomen. Blueberry Milk shook his head, tail and claws curving even more tightly around him.

He swallowed. Took a fortifying breath of blueberries-winter starlight-nearly soured milk and then whispered. “…Not now. I know we have too much before us. The stakes are too high for me to allow myself to distract you. But. Afterwards. When all is said and done. I will- I will… make love to you. …And I will… tell you the Truth.”

Shocked-stillness that overwhelmed the embarrassed yearning-desire-excitement. Blueberry Milk’s claws, curling around his hand, threading their fingers together. The other cookie’s breath, on his dough, as the Fount whispered, “Are you…sure?”

(No. He was not sure. Something in him screamed, rebelled, at the thought. But. How could he ask Blueberry Milk to have faith – in himself, in them, in cookies – if he would not do the same?)

“…you are changing, Bluebell. I see it. And…with you…perhaps…Fate. I…I have to believe that. I have to. I…I have to have faith, as well. Don’t I?”

You have been betrayed so many times already. …I do not want to be the thing that breaks you.

***

“I…I’m sorry,” He murmured, later, after they’d settled into a peaceful silence.

At the vague feeling of question, he gestured towards the other cookie’s tail, still tangled around his leg; the claws, still curved around his hand.

A moment of blankness, before Blueberry Milk jolted, ever so slightly, and then the other cookie’s head again came to rest against his shoulder. “Ah. You needn’t fear. We’re not being watched.”

…that made…no sense. “Watched?” He echoed dumbly.

Blueberry Milk hummed, as if he were talking sense, before his free hand made an easy sweeping motion – like he’d done before, when they’d gotten into the carriage. “I was worried a moment, when they only sent a carriage and not a coach; only one cookie to drive us; the lack of decorum. But they haven’t stooped so low as to plant surveillance arrays, either in the cabin or on the body itself. …although whether that is out of some lingering respect or just due to not wanting to disrupt the protective array inscribed into the walls, I can’t be certain…”

“Bluebell!” He said, a little desperately. “You’re not making any sense! Why would you assume someone was…spying on us?!”

The beginnings of confusion-concern rippled down their bond before Blueberry Milk said, in a tone of voice that had no business being as reasonable as it was. “I only meant- with the lack of proper procedure usually afforded to me, I feared they might? Lady Smith and the others said it as well, did they not? That things changing would be a source of unease? …it seemed logical to consider they might want to get more information on both myself and the source of the change? This is an Institute carriage, after all.

“I normally prefer to just…open a portal; to avoid putting myself in the position of depending on the benevolence of another…but given the purpose of this visit, and that I am trying to, well, not distress cookies over much with Dark Moon Magic…taking the carriage seemed the lesser of two evils. And with it comes the potential for…unexpected consequence. Regardless, I’ll shapeshift them away again once we’re nearing Heidelbeere, and they shouldn’t be seen bar anyone outright attacking us-”

Still feeling disconcerted and wondering vaguely if Blueberry Milk was being paranoid or he was being stupid, he sputtered out, “Attacking you?!”

“Nilly?” Blueberry Milk finally said, bewilderment creeping into his tone.

Taking a calming breath of blueberries and nearly soured milk, he sighed heavily, and murmured, “I fear your common sense and my common sense are…not aligning.”

A clawed hand, brushing through his hair, even as the other cookie remained silent.

“I suppose…we will just…have to see. Won’t we.” He whispered, dread beginning to coil inside him once more.

“I will…I will keep you safe, Pure Vanilla. You have my word.”

“…it’s not me I fear for.”

Claws, brushing over his dough, holding his hand. Trying, so hard, for reassuring. “I will be fine. We will both be fine. …I’m still the God of this land, Nilla. That has to amount for something, don’t you think? …They cannot hurt me.”

(It didn’t help. How could it? When he knew the lie for what it was? When he Knew how very fragile this God he adored truly was?)

(Every whispered word, every rejection – they had already hurt him.)

Chapter Text

Who is the Monster and Who is the (---)?

They arrived in Heidelbeere with little fanfare.

Blueberry Milk had straightened out his rumpled clothes; shapeshifted away his claws and tail; erased the corruption upon his face with little more than a thought and a hint of magic followed by a glamor over-top to hide away the Eyes that sometimes blinked open in his hair.

(Such seemingly simple magic, to wipe away all the uncertainty that remained.)

Another brief glow, and then the other’s crown – silver-colored, five-pointed; a splash of milk or perhaps something stylized and floral – settled back into place atop his head.

And then, he was truly left looking upon the Fount of Knowledge, once more.

(That shape – it prickled at the edges of his memory, like a burr. …where had he seen that shape before? The Spire?)

But there was no time for distraction. No time to even think. A roar of sound outside the relative safety of the carriage. The door, swinging open at the hand of the same cookie who’d collected them. His face as expressionless as it had been before.

A hand, extended towards him, after the Fount alighted first.

(Blueberry Milk’s smile. Hesitant, gentle, a little uneven. A question, without expectation, settling in the shadows of his heart. And he knew, with the certainty of Truth, that the Fount would not begrudge him turning back, even at this eleventh hour.)

(But he would never forgive himself.)

He took it.

***

Quiet. It was so unbearably quiet.

The noise had not simply dulled. For one impossible moment, it ceased entirely. An entire city’s attention arrested; a thought suspended. Even the rushing rapids of the forks of the Skim Milk River seemed distant. Muted.

It was so very different from the Heidelbeere he’d known, just briefly, once before. That had been a place bustling with activity. With noise. With life. With students and shop owners and gentry and minstrels and cookies that lived and hoped and dreamed and loved and hated and feared in equal measure.

It had felt real. The living, breathing heart of a nation. And he and his Bluebell had slipped into the current as if they’d always been there. Just another pair of faces. Another couple. On a date, perhaps.

There was no doing that, now.

Perhaps it had to do with where they were. The carriage had taken them to the upper levels of the city, where he could only presume the men of state resided. Each building was grand, ornate. Filled with towering arches and peaks and intricate carvings. Built of white marble-cake; that durable, expensive stone he’d only seen in the Spire previously. And, above even that, rising up like the sun above those halls of power; beyond the grand Cathedral with its delicately colored sugar-glass was…the Institute.

It had to be.

Built of the same white marble-cake, it gleamed in the morning sunlight. A massive rosette window stood in pride of place, high in a gabled tower, a stylized sun in white-gold sugar glass, radiating light.

It looked more like a place of worship than the Cathedral. But then again, that seemed fitting, in this City of Knowledge.

He straightened instinctively. This was…this would be nothing like the comforting presence of Cremefeld, filled with friendly cookies and acceptance. Not even like the wonders of the Vanilla Kingdom in its heyday, nor the ostentatious splendor of the Crème Republic. The Vanilla Kingdom had been much like its king – too friendly, too kind even to the point of detriment. And the Crème Republic had been much too young, retreating into formality and opulence to impress and assert its dominance.

No. This was…ancient power, comfortable in its own supremacy. A casual absolute filled with calm serenity, for how could it ever be otherwise, in this Kingdom of Knowledge, that fashioned itself after a living God?

A gentle curl of reassurance-warmth-love blossoming in the shadow of his heart. The feel of slightly cool fingers, grasping his own, to tuck his hand into the crook of Blueberry Milk’s arm. The presence of a cookie at his side.

Right. He was not alone. And neither was Blueberry Milk. This was a battle they would fight together.

(For a better, brighter future.)

Maybe Blueberry Milk sensed his resolve. For the other cookie turned, and smiled at him. That soft, crooked thing that was all his Bluebell.

If I cannot beg the Witches for help, for guidance; if I do not completely trust the Earthbread that gave rise to the Faeries that forsook him and offered the source of his suffering with little regard for consequence; then I will trust in myself, and the God I chose.

I will build the future I wish to see with my own two hands.

I must at least try.

I will not forsake my Beast.

***

They had been kept waiting. Not enough to be obviously impolite but just enough to imply insult.

He didn’t care. What did he care for mortal cookies and their fleeting games?

Something in him burned .

Pure Vanilla was a grounding presence at his side, and resolution-not-his glowed like sunlight in his heart.

(He was not alone, upon this stage. And the curtains had only barely risen. As for this game, that the cookies of the Court, the Institute were playing? Well, he would not be so uncouth as to not play with the pieces set before him.)

(The insults to himself, he could endure. But the insult to Pure Vanilla? Never.)

Normally, he would simply allow himself to sink, ever so slightly, into Knowledge. It helped him maintain equilibrium, kept blank serenity on his face. However, that would be…unwise, right now, with Pure Vanilla’s gentle warmth secreted away in his soul, which left him with simply Knowing the Fount, instead.

Fortunately, he Knew the Fount very well.  

The sound of swiftly approaching footsteps. He ignored the crowd of cookies pressed into the shadows of the buildings – if they would not even deign to step out upon the stage he had no business with them – and instead observed the new cookies that approached.

Well dressed in fine cloth, some bearing the livery of House Sinensis while others bore the symbol of the radiant sun of the Institute, his attention was nevertheless focused on the cookie at the fore.

Clad in cloth of such a dark shade of burgundy so as to be nearly black (his black!) artfully slashed to reveal the rich tones of carmine beneath, with tiny threads of silver candy-floss at the hems, this cookie looked every inch the proud, venerable statesman. Coupled with the finely coiffed hair, the neatly trimmed beard and broad, muscular physique, this was undeniably a well-baked, powerful cookie.

(Something in him shuddered, painfully, at this cookie who was everything he should have been, but was not. Perfect.)

The cookie bowed, and his entourage followed suit. Just low enough to seem deferential without being low enough to truly be so.

“Lord Assam.” He said flatly.

The other cookie smiled. It did not meet his eyes.

“My Lord,” the noble started, before straightening, as if propriety did not dictate he needed leave to do so. (It didn’t matter, what did he care? He had never been one to stand on ceremony, anyway.) 

“Well met, my Lord Fount. You grace us with your presence, in our hour of need. Truly, the Divine must smile upon us, that their Virtues return to protect us, in these troubled times.” Lord Assam was well spoken and articulate; his voice clear and carried like the tolling of a bell, to all the cookies gathered round.

(He paid no mind to those other cookies, milling about; the quiet murmur that rose in the wake of Lord Assam’s words.)

His hand tightened, ever so slightly, around his staff.

With a shallow incline of his head (exactly as propriety dictated), he said, “I have heeded the cries of Gnosia.” He paused. Inhaled. Did not look at Pure Vanilla, but felt something in him reach for his other half, searching for that familiar strength, all the same. “…what has been Asked, shall be Answered.”

It felt like the entire world held its breath. Lord Assam smiled again, eyes falling shut. His arm swept wide in a grand movement, gesturing towards the towering entrance of the Court before them. “Then come! There is much work to be done, and little time to spare.”

Lord Assam turned, as if to lead them all inside, but then he paused. Lingered. Turned empty eyes and a blank smile upon Pure Vanilla. (He bristled. He could not help it.)

“But, I must confess, I am curious. Never have I known of a cookie to stand beside Knowledge so boldly.”

(He did not flinch. But something in him shuddered at the Truth of it.)

Pure Vanilla stepped forward beside him before he could speak. Bowed deeply, respectfully. His lips curved into that gentle, pleasant smile. Certainty-not-his, implacable, spread like a soothing balm, from the hollow of his heart.

“Greetings. I am Pure Vanilla Cookie. I am…simply where I should be. As a cookie, I have always sought the Truth Knowledge holds.”

“…Interesting.” Lord Assam murmured quietly, thoughtfully. He tilted his head, and said, softly, “And it would seem you bear His …mark.”

Pure Vanilla’s hand went to his Soul Jam. Proudly. Unreservedly. “I do.”

Lord Assam’s eyes narrowed.

It was instinct that had him taking a step forward, something dark and pulsing and possessive pounding in his jam. He smiled.

He bared his fangs.

“He is animae dimidium meae, if we are to keep to the old tongue.”

And while those behind and around him (and even Pure Vanilla himself) could only shift in confused incomprehension, Lord Assam’s eyes widened and his hand trembled.

Good.

He smiled, pleasant, empty, poisoned. “You spoke of work to be done? Then we shall attend to it. But first, the Institute, if you would be so kind.”

His Eyes took in the gathered, hushed cookies around him, and he said easily, voice carrying, lilting in that way that would ensure his words would grow wings and a life of their own, “I have heard the cries of my cookies. They yearn for food, and they seek Answers.  …Answers I shall give them, but I fear they are to be found in the Institute. So let us make haste.”

***

The thing was, a ‘God’ could not be…outright…denied.

He would do well not to forget. The Beast was also a player.

What kind, of course, had yet to be seen. It had been many a year since the Beast had last deigned to descend from its Tower. It had gone quiet, quiescent, even, since it had been disavowed by the Academy. Something in it had shattered, at that final blow. But then, that was only right. The children of the Academy were still suffering night terrors; although the solution for that, thank the Witches, had been found.

(A strange note, appearing one day, or so his informants had said, of its own accord. That foolish Headmaster had accepted it without a second thought. By all accounts a frightfully brilliant work of here-to-fore unknown healing magic. And yet – no author on the page, no cookie to claim it. Just one more strange occurrence in the chain of chaos the Beast had unleashed, and yet Melomel had accepted it as gospel. Really, he would never understand that Headmaster.)

Furthermore, the cookies of the Academy were still finding…oddities. Stairs that ascended downwards, or walkways that demanded one dance as they passed. Strange and monstrous creatures – books that bit, unless their spines were stroked; alchemy flasks that would explode at inopportune moments unless sung to. And then, there were the things of fever-dreams. Strange distortions in space, that made the heart race to look at; that sometimes gave birth to rabbits with monocles and pocket watches. Little guides, who would get a cookie lost or present a shortcut in turn. Cream wolves decked in fleece, that would nuzzle at a cookie, as if they thought themselves sheep.

And yet, that fool Melomel still seemed to cling to the fantasy that one day, the Beast might return. As if, since there were no permanent injuries, because the Beast was regretful, the situation could still be salvaged. A temporary setback, despite being the very source of all the chaos and madness in the first place. As if Dark Moon Magic was not proof positive that it was going quite as mad as its brethren.

Really, the only good thing to come out of the whole debacle was that the Academy was quite focused on its own recovery and repairs. No representative had shown up when the Convocation had first been called; none had claimed its seat within the Court. 

Well, that, and moonstone, curious thing that it was. It thrummed with power, something ancient and terrible and unknowable. Even he could feel it – raw power trapped in crystal. A tear in reality and yet suspended in time. He had wanted to focus on studying it, rather than such a … paltry substitute, even if he could not deny that silver had its uses. But it had been…recalcitrant, in revealing its secrets, what little they had divined theoretical at best, barely applicable. And then it had cracked, as if spent, days ago now.

And here they were. The Beast upon their very doorstep; an ill omen.

It was no matter.

He would gain the upper hand.

He always did.

What use was there, in a God who broke?

(Cracked apart, as any cookie might. If the Beast truly was just a cookie; was something less, even - if those nauseating reports of its irregularities and indecorous behavior were to be believed, if the thing behind him was just a beast, pretending at cookiehood; (and he was beginning to suspect that they were to be believed, after that revolting display, given how that ...impropriety... featured this…’Pure Vanilla Cookie,’ so prominently) – then he would put his trust in cookies, and not the thing masquerading as one.)

***

It was clear they had received word of his arrival.

Which had been the point of taking the carriage, of course. Give the Institute just enough warning of his arrival, but then attend immediately to business, and thus not so much time that Lord Assam or the cookies of the Institute could control the pace of the events that followed. He wanted them off-balance, but was not ready to completely antagonize them. These were still ostensibly his cookies, after all. Pure Vanilla made him want to be better. Regardless, there was much that could be gleamed, from what a cookie did and did not do, in the face of his presence; from what was hidden and what was revealed by a cookie who had much to hide.

(He would give them enough rope to see if they might hang themselves with it.)

But it was…more difficult than it should have been, to focus upon his machinations as awe-wonder-not-his curled gently in the hollow of his heart. They had made it to the uppermost level of the city, the tier dedicated to the Institute and its various buildings. For all that the true Heart of Earthbread was many leagues to the west…this was, in many ways, the heart of all the Knowledge of Earthbread.

Or perhaps, Knowledge as cookies perceived it.

(The Institute was not his. Not a reflection of his mind and soul; not like the Spire was. Not like the Academy was. But once, he had loved it. Not because it was his, but because it was born of cookies who had chased Knowledge with zeal, rigor and honesty. But that had changed, centuries ago, when love of knowledge had become greed for knowledge. When a desire to control knowledge had supplanted what little true regard for knowledge remained. Changed, as the cookies themselves had changed. Because that was what cookies did.)

(What he did.)

Awe-wonder-joy. Stronger, brighter, more pointed. Glowing deep within the recess of his heart. A reminder. He was not alone. There were cookies who loved knowledge, even now. Even…even in that far flung future. Even if his….his… was gone… cookies who still loved Knowledge remained.

Maybe one day, he could learn to love Knowledge, again.

“It’s quite magnificent, isn’t it?” Lord Assam’s voice was jarring, pulling him from his quiet melancholia.

Right. Focus, Blue. You have work to do.

He turned, forcing his mind into quiet, and his attention upon the cookie who had led them to the Institute gates. There had been a note of genuine pride, in Lord Assam’s voice, as he gestured elegantly at the courtyard and towering buildings around them, as if to indicate the complex, the various cookies running to-and-fro. The Institute itself.

“It is,” Pure Vanilla said, humming appreciatively. The healer’s hand squeezed his arm gently, where it was still curved around his elbow, and he could not help his smile, at the way Pure Vanilla loved these things that had once been born in imitation of his Virtue.

“It is the crowning achievement of Gnosia. The mark of cookie-ingenuity and curiosity and zeal for the unknown. Proof of our advancement. Of our progress.”

Lord Assam’s eyes glowed as he spoke. It was…the first true emotion he had seen in the other’s face. Words that rung with Truth…and yet tasted strangely bitter, upon his lips. He did not frown, but his face blanked even more into empty serenity at that. Knowledge curled under the surface, bubbling with dissonance.

(The first ripple. The first stone cast.)

A flare of attentiveness-caution, before Pure Vanilla tilted his head, asking, “You seem quite taken with that?”  Pure Vanilla’s voice was mild and calm, but there was a note of intrigue in his tone.

“Of course.” Lord Assam’s voice rung with absolute surety, as if his feelings were both inevitable and self-evident. “Cookies are, to my mind, the culmination of Divine creation. There is nothing we cannot learn, cannot achieve; so long as we bend our mind and effort to the task. And the Institute, here in Gnosia, is a prime example of that.”

Pure Vanilla hummed thoughtfully, saying, “You believe in the boundless future of cookies, then.”

Something in him chilled, at those words, at the implications, at the way Lord Assam turned slowly, movements easy and inevitable, to ask, with the calm certainty of one asking a question with an answer that they already knew, “Of course, I do. …don’t you?”

…in the future? In progress before all else? …what of the cookies who build that future?

“I believe in building a better world, a happier world, for all cookies,” Pure Vanilla said, as if it were the easiest thing in all the world.

(The measure of a cookie. Pure Vanilla somehow always seemed to know what he needed, what he sought; how best to be his support, his aid, his guide, even with no words spoken between them.)

But then, Lord Assam turned to him, and he remembered – he was not the only one giving out far too much rope, not the only one with a script. (He was not a spectator. Not truly. No matter how often he felt like that was all he would ever be.) The lord asked, with a smile that seemed so pleasant as to be mocking and yet, utterly empty, “and what of you, my Lord? What does a God believe in?”

The question should not have blindsided him. Not as much as it did. It was to be expected. And yet – the answer? He didn’t Know. Not truly. (The feeling was as unsettling and yet – as freeing – as it ever was.) A hand, squeezing around his arm in gentle encouragement. Pure Vanilla’s warmth, soothing the cracks in his soul. The beginnings of a Truth, blossoming deep within, and perhaps, he did have the beginnings of an answer he was comfortable with, after all.

“…I believe in my Hope.”

(Lord Assam’s brow twitched, the only indication of his confusion. But deep within him, between them, Pure Vanilla – his Truth, his light, his Hope – ‘animae dimidium meae’ – he who was half of his soul – glowed.)

***

They were soon joined by another pair of cookies, upon the threshold of the Institute. The first was resplendent in flowing robes of purest white, liberally decorated with white-gold candy-floss and embossed with the radiant sun of the Institute upon his chest. He shimmered with each step he took, each gesture he made. It was spectacle and pageantry; as if he fashioned himself a source of divine illumination.

His companion was utterly drab, in comparison. Clad in cool brown tones, his only ornamentation the three knots hanging from his belt. In his arms he clutched a large tome, well-made and well-cared for.

The first cookie swept into a deep bow, seemingly unperturbed by their arrival. “Well met, my Lord. I am Criollo, of House Arabica, Princeps of this humble Institute. We are deeply honored by your presence. Forgive us the paltry nature of our reception, but, if you would follow me, we do have some refreshments for your enjoyment.” The cookie then gestured at his companion, adding, “I’ve also brought the ledger of our most recent research projects and proposals, for your perusal.”

And it was…exactly as propriety dictated. Exactly as he might have wanted, even. And yet it was a distraction. A trap. The flashy sacrificial offering, to divert attention away from things less savory.

Dangerous. But quite dissimilar to Lord Assam, it would seem. No wonder House Sinensis and House Arabica have always remained close allies, throughout the generations.

Humming softly, nodding once before gesturing, he said, “Well met, Princeps. It is my pleasure to introduce you to my treasured companion, Pure Vanilla Cookie. And while your thoughtfulness is appreciated, I am here for one project specifically, and therefore need not impose too much upon your time.” He paused for a moment, before continuing, voice lilting gently, “We come concerning the matter of the silver, after all.”

Lord Assam and Princeps Criollo were too well taught to react to that. But the other cookie, he stiffened, ever so slightly.

He waited. Patiently. Smiling. Eyes closed. The phantom presence of his Eyes focused and assessing, anticipation-not-his blooming in the hollow of his heart.

Laughter. Loud. Not joyous. Lord Assam’s lips curved into a smile with teeth. “Truly, the Fount of All-Knowledge.” He gestured towards the entrance way, saying, “Come. There is much to show you.” It was only as they all crossed that last threshold that he threw back one last comment, over his shoulder, with a twist of the lips that even kindness could not call a smile.

“You truly are the same as your brethren, it would seem. To have the blessing of Protector of Solidarity and now the Fount of Knowledge. Truly, the Witches are smiling upon us.”

Chapter Text

Your Kind are Only Good for Bad Behavior

For a moment, the words were simply incomprehensible.

It was as if language itself had lost all meaning. He knew the sound of each letter, the way those letters strung together to form words and phrases. Could identify them individually. Could even hazard at their meaning, their implication. And yet, when it was those particular words, in that particular order – ‘To have the blessing of the Protector of Solidarity’ – all meaning ceased to exist.

…what? Salt? What- what does Salt have to do-

A hand, warm and gentle, tucking into the curve of his arm, and reassurance-calm spreading across their bond like cool, clear water. It was less helpful than it might have been, due to the steady thrum of bewilderment and anxiety that bubbled beneath the surface, but it was enough. Enough for him to collect himself, force down the shock, the questions. He didn’t have the luxury of horror. Not now. Not when he had willingly entered onto this little stage of theirs; not when this performance they were all enacting was still ongoing. The curtain had not fallen, it was not yet time to exit stage left.

Lord Assam was not looking at him, and yet he could still feel the full weight of the other cookie’s regard.

He too, was still but a character upon a stage, and had his part to play.

Calm, Blue. You are The Fount. Knowledge. You are untouchable, unflappable. You are the Answer. It is not for you to have questions.

“So, you don’t deny it?” Pure Vanilla was asking, even voice thin and reedy to his ears, as if being heard over a great distance. Then, the healer gently disentangled their arms, stepping forward in an easy movement as if to draw Lord Assam’s focus upon himself, or perhaps to hide him from view.

“We are no deceivers!” Lord Criollo sounded affronted at the very notion.

It still seemed as if Lord Assam was assessing him, finding him unworthy? for a moment more, before the noble turned his attention to Pure Vanilla, answering in a placid, even tone. “There would be no point.”

Knowledge prickled, insistent. A tiny nudge at some important facet of the conversation he both Knew and did not Know. A moment in the now to focus on, to ground himself in. An Answer he should Know; a Question worth asking. He hummed, attention returning to the conversation at hand. “Because I already know? Or because this is not a Truth that should be hidden?”

Lord Assam paused mid-step before turning neatly to face him. The other cookie observed him coolly, face impassive. He might have even respected the other for it, if he did not know it was rooted in contempt. (If Knowledge hadn’t settled like a snake, in his mind. Watchful. Waiting.)

(A nebulous thought, gaining form with each successive interaction with Lord Assam. He was intimately familiar with lies-to-self, after all. Where was that boundary? Between Lies and Truth? When did a Lie become Truth? When it was believed in, so ardently, it became one of myriad individual Truths? Or was this simply…proof that Lies and Truths were not so different after all? …or perhaps, was this where the difference lay, between Deception and Delusion? A mind engaged in deception must know the Truth, somewhere, and chose the Lie. A Deluded mind believed in the Lie as if it were the Truth. But which was Lord Assam. …because surely, he couldn’t be right?)

Lord Assam spoke with all the confidence of a cookie who knew their Truth to be inevitable. “There is no point in running from reality. The Future will have us either way.” He nodded at Pure Vanilla, a shallow, strangely respectful gesture. “What is more, I welcome it. I have the utmost confidence in cookies’ capabilities.” Lord Assam’s eyes narrowed slightly, as his gaze slid away from Pure Vanilla and towards him once again. “Cookies are ever leaving the past behind, and I would never sanction something that would force us to linger there.” Nodding once, the lord finished, “So, there is no point in hiding something you already Know to be True. I am not so foolish as to forget who you are, Lord Fount.”

He nodded thoughtfully, even as unease-not-his prickled at his consciousness. (The cloying sweetness of a Lie, the ring of Truth, even as Knowledge could pull them apart. He would have to ask Pure Vanilla, later, what he thought of Lord Assam’s declaration. What Truth made of such words. Was here a divide, between Truth and Knowledge?)

“Of course, we would never lie to you, my Lord Fount.” Criollo agreed firmly. Then he added, stately and solemn, “It would be very unbecoming indeed, of us seekers-of-truth and keepers-of-knowledge. We are meant to shed light upon the way forward, after all. …Lies could never do such a thing." Turning to the cookie clad in brown, the Princeps said, “Boy. Go fetch the other ledger, for our Lord’s perusal. And meet us in the laboratory – you know the one-“

At that, all that was left was for Criollo to lead them deeper into the Institute. They passed lecture halls; magic and alchemical laboratories; planetariums and observatories; classrooms papered floor-to-ceiling with star-charts, with alchemical symbols, with runes. And, of course, cookies. So, so many cookies, that all seemed to still and stare as they passed and left hushed whispers in their wake.

As he led them through winding corridors, Criollo spoke of the Institute. The latest research proposals and projects; the most recent advancements in practical magic and magicanical engineering; forays into nature magic and the study of the natural word; the crafting of newer, more specialized, more intricate elemental arrays. The Princeps spoke of the latest knowledge gleaned on the Sources themselves; new theories as to the meanings inherent in some runes as they were strung together in increasingly intricate and unusual ways-

He let the wave of sound wash over him, a much-needed respite from the intensity of the former moment. Even as some small part of him listened, and inwardly appreciated the Princeps’ clear regard for the Institute as a place of study and learning, most of his attention was upon Pure Vanilla. The other cookie’s expression was calm, gently smiling, but he could feel the tangle of awe-anticipation-anxiety bubbling just beneath the surface.

(There was a certain tragedy to this. He should be proudly showing Pure Vanilla his accomplishments, his triumphs, this nation fashioned in his image, a thing of learning and Knowledge, not having Pure Vanilla chase the trail of his mistakes. Should be showing Pure Vanilla the places he loved and adored, not the places that were never his to begin with.)

Maybe, when this is all over, I can take him to my Academy. Surely, they would…allow me that much? …even if only once?  …….. or maybe he would enjoy joining me on some of my consultations?

(It was a familiar agony. One he could not allow himself to drown in. Perhaps that was why…knowing his Academy’s fate… didn’t change that much. …despair was still despair. Even when it deepened. He had to think on something else. Anything. There was still hope. Pure Vanilla was finally beginning to open up – had even committed himself to revealing that Truth, whatever it was – that thing he was so desperately afraid of – and once he knew, they could work to avoid it. Together. So long as they were together, he had faith- …he was learning to have faith …there was still hope.)

(He moved a little closer to Pure Vanilla, reaching for the other’s hand to tuck around his arm once again, as something warm and soft began to sprout inside his soul. An innocent gesture. …it wouldn’t give too much away, surely? No more than what he’d already admitted to Lord Assam himself.)

…Animae dimidium meae.

Something in him glowed, glinted like gems in sunlight at the very thought, and he was soon tasting jam in suppressing the smile that wanted to bloom across his features.

…’Half of my soul.’ And he loves me. Wants me. …all of me. …even the parts I never thought someone could look upon and love. Enough to Lie for me… and now, enough to try and tell me the Truth. I won’t disappoint him. I won’t.

A thumb, sliding gently along the inside of his arm, curiosity-affection, in the hollow of his heart. The attention of Pure Vanilla’s beholder, trained in his direction.

He simply let all the love and adoration he had for the other cookie well up out of him, and was rewarded with a faint twitch of his Hope’s lips into what he knew was a smile. Even without his monocle, with his Eyes closed and hidden away, he would always recognize Pure Vanilla’s smile. It was so warm.

“-we are, gentlecookies! Thank you for your patience.” Criollo paused upon their arrival at what was, upon first inspection, a simple wooden door. Made of solid almond wood and hard walnut so perfectly carved that the varying slats held together via proximity and pressure alone; the only intricacy was the line of parallel runes carved along the lintel and border, a locking mechanism. ...this was clearly a heavily guarded, and highly valued location. Or, more accurately, the research inside was.

There was one brief moment of silence before the Princeps turned to him, face carefully schooled into blank inquiry, but unable to completely hide the greed in his words. “Forgive me such a brief summary, my Lord. But I hope you find our current research and pursuit of Knowledge to your satisfaction…?”

He sighed internally. Always demanding Answers… “I recall a missive from a few weeks ago concerning the application of long-range fire magic. I had intended to hold a Petitioner’s Court while I was here. Members of the Institute are always welcome to present their case and seek my counsel, should they so desire.”

He could feel Pure Vanilla’s surprise at his words, and patted the other’s hand idly, before attempting to redirect the conversation, “But let us attend to the silver, first. That is the most pressing matter.”

I suppose I didn’t talk much on the Petitioner’s Court. …maybe Nilla wouldn’t mind joining? …hopefully it’s not too trite nor boring a task. …It would be nice… doing such a thing together. It would be really nice…

Criollo acquiesced easily. “Of course, my Lord. Actually, this too is quite an important subject of study, and any insights you deign to give would be most welcome.” Tilting his head consideringly, his gaze slid over to Pure Vanilla. “I’m sure you must be an uncommon mind yourself, to stand beside our Lord, so.”

Pure Vanilla smiled politely in thanks but did not otherwise respond; Criollo did not seem to expect him to. Instead, he simply reached out, palm pressing upon smooth wood. There was a faint glow, tracing out the array inscribed upon the door and jamb. Then, only when the glow had settled into each rune, did Criollo open the door, gesturing for them to enter.

It was…too easy. Anticlimactic, even, for the amount of trouble he’d gone through – they had all gone through – Pure Vanilla and Black Hyacinth and Edelweiss and Gooseberry and Blackcurrant and Lady Smith and all of Cremefeld. Anticipation, and something worse, something darker, bubbled in his stomach.

This show is only just beginning.

***

Despite being the culmination of all their efforts, it was a painfully ordinary laboratory. Utterly mundane. There were flasks of twice baked sugar glass, caldrons, tables and empty spaces littered with pages upon pages upon pages of parchment. There were cookies, darting back and forth, taking notes, debating, gesturing, downing coffee or tea like it was the only thing holding them together-

Everything stalled, frozen into stillness, upon their arrival.

Busying himself with affixing his monocle before his eye and then gently activating one of the vision-focusing arrays he’d inscribed upon it, he paid no heed to Criollo’s explanatory words to the cookies before him nor to the faces of the cookies around them.

Pure Vanilla stood beside him, and there was something pounding, expectant and wary in the hollow behind his heart. 

It was only as Criollo turned to them, gesturing for them to follow him deeper into the room, that Lord Assam spoke up, voice lilting and easy. “You know, I am curious, my Lord. How did you know of our endeavors here?” His eyes darted towards Criollo and the room at large, a careful expression upon his face. “We have been most circumspect, in our handling of information. Given the nature of our…research.” The other paused a moment, and then he added, with an almost sardonic lilt, “Or is all knowledge simply known to our Lord, as ‘Fount of All-Knowledge’ implies?”

Really, there was something almost…admirable…in such brazen, shameless impudence. He would not dance to Lord Assam’s tune. Lips curving upwards as his eyes fell shut, he replied, “And if it was the latter, Lord Assam?”

Lord Assam lips curved in a similar gesture, as the other cookie responded, “Have we not shown you what you wish to see?”

Pure Vanilla did not reach out to grab his hand, nor to brush against his arm. But he did move one step closer, that he might feel the other’s warmth. It was the healer who said, “We could hardly miss the silver in the milk-rivers and soil around Cremefeld, my lord. As, I suspect, you well know.”

“Yes, those poor cookies,” Criollo said, shaking his head slightly. “We have been trying to get them to move, of course. But they still won’t listen to reason.” Turning to gaze upon him, he added, “but perhaps, if you, my Lord, were to agree with us? For who could deny the Fount of All-Knowledge?”

There was something…quietly throbbing away in the cookie beside him. The first stirrings of fury.

Turning away to let his eyes wander the room at large, he used the moment afforded him to let calm-reassurance fill him and his other half. They both…they both needed to be calm. There was no danger. They had dealt with that problem, after all. “You need not fear upon that account. We’ve dealt with the silver in the milk of Cremefeld, I assure you.” He said easily.

It was another chip in Lord Assam’s mask. A minute widening of his eyes, a hand clenching around an arm. Lord Assam’s fingers drummed, once, where they were crossed over his chest.

Lord Criollo was less composed. “You…you have?” He sputtered, looking a little shell-shocked. “I- I mean, truly, that is wonderful news, and most fortunate for the people of Cremefeld-“

“You know what I find most curious?” Pure Vanilla cut the other off, sounding almost…cold. “Why you would try to get those cookies to move, in the first place.”

He blinked. That was…a very good question. And not one he’d even considered, focused as he was on the implications of silver in the first place; trying to guess what these cookies might be doing.

Lord Criollo’s mouth opened and closed, and he visibly pulled himself back together, starting, “I am sure, as an esteemed guest of the Fount, your words were not meant to hold such an implication of slander! We were only worried for those poor cookies, and kindly offered our hand in assist-“

It was Lord Assam now, who cut him off, eyes narrowed and focused on Pure Vanilla. If the other cookie had seemed begrudgingly respectful before, he seemed be battling respect and wariness, now. “You speak as if you are familiar with the dangers of silver.”

Pure Vanilla didn’t miss a beat. “As I suspect you are, as well.”

“Silver is a substance poorly understood. What research was once conducted on it was hundreds of years ago, and poorly preserved. It has necessitated an aggressive, diverse agenda of projects, now.”

And he wanted to ask, wanted to demand ‘what has necessitated?!’ but Pure Vanilla said, sounding almost…incensed, “It has put cookie’s lives at stake!”

He reached for Pure Vanilla’s hand unthinkingly, drawing the other cookie close, letting reassurance-comfort-reminder spill over their bond. They had dealt with that. They were dealing with that.

Knowledge prickled, and something shifted in the air, but he didn’t have long to think on it, because Lord Criollo seemed to come to a decision, saying in a tone nearly overburdened with sorrow, “Yes. Which is why we keep trying to get them to move. If we cannot right the damage done, we can at least mitigate it. …learn from our failures.”

Criollo led them forward, past the area of the laboratory dedicated to magical research and the half-formed arrays strewn about on papers everywhere, beyond the portion dedicated to alchemical research, and finally, to a small corner of the room where – a cake-hound lay on its side, panting heavily. 

A blueberry bird, standing almost unnaturally still, one wing hanging limp.

A pair of cookies in dark smocks and gloves, faces hidden by protective lenses, huddled over a small board with notes and the carefully exposed remains of a molasses-mouse.

They were all a horribly familiar blue-grey in color.

(The world started spinning, ever so slightly. Desaturating before his eyes.)

“-discover a cure or antidote to the damages wrought by silver, but it is not for lack of trying, I assure you. As you can see, we’ve been most methodical in our research, and once we realized the full extent of the danger, we moved to advise the local villages along the Skim Milk River to move. Cremefeld is simply unfortunately positioned and rather more stubborn than the others-“

“-told you, we need more time. And specimens, probably, because nothing seems to work to remove the silver or negate the- my Lord Fount?!” One of the researchers’ voices cut off, strangled, quill dropping from nerveless fingers and then both researchers were backing away, bowing and scraping, heads swinging almost comically between himself and Lords Criollo and Assam-

(The cake-hound’s tail wave up and down once, slowly, as if in greeting, at their arrival.)

(The blueberry bird didn’t even twitch. Didn’t try and hop away, or recoil.)

Pure Vanilla fell to his knees beside the cake-hound, hands shaking as he reached out for the blueberry bird, before he disappeared in an explosion of golden light.

(Healing magic. So potent, so thick, it filled the air with a near visible haze and a pressure that made movement slow and lethargic, like wading through syrup.) 

He sunk to his own knees beside Pure Vanilla, snapping out of his shock at the raw anguish-not-his that pulled him under in its wake. His own magic flexed outwards in response, a shimmering cocoon surrounding them both as he settled into a protective coil around the other cookie. His arms curled around Pure Vanilla’s shoulders as he waited, quietly.

(Golden light. An intricate array expanding before them, gold and white and cyan spiraling like a star being born. Life-giving Light. Burn away the darkness, the shadows. The silver. And for all the power, the magic, the roiling anguish-horror-fury radiating from the other cookie, his magic was so gentle. Warm and soothing and calm. Like being cradled in the safety of a loving heart.)

The cake-hound’s heavy breathing evened out while the blueberry bird gained a little more life, wing beginning to flutter. A tail wagged slowly, more purposefully. A soft quiet chirp.

(Silver. Still so horribly, horribly silver.)

(It didn’t work. Of course, it didn’t work. There was no cure.)

Slowly, that golden light died. Receded under Pure Vanilla’s dough, leaving a vacuum in its wake. The healer rose to his feet, each movement purposeful, controlled. Incandescent fury burned along their bond, but the other’s gaze was cold. Frozen. Pure Vanilla cradled the small blueberry bird in his hands, as if he was cupping something fragile, precious. He took a single step forward, an implacable wall between the research team at large and the desecrated life that still remained.

“Bluebell.”

It was easy to tell what Pure Vanilla wanted, when he could feel each throb of protect-preserve-‘save-them!’ that rung like a death knoll beneath the riptide of righteous-fury.

It was not a surprise, when the cake-hound let him come closer, foolish, loving creature that it was. But even the blueberry bird did not shy away from him, perhaps too weak, when Dark Moon Magic spiraled out from him, dark blue-black, like a bruise upon the world, flecked with cyan and silver, gentle Healing magic for calm. Knowledge had the array springing into his mind, a half-formed thought made whole, Isa-Algiz-Laguz-Berkana-Wunjo-Inguz in quick succession, for this was at the request of Compassion, until he was left cradling two tiny, self-contained universes in a pair of cards held protectively against his chest. A flicker of magic and he had a third for the molasses-mouse that had been sacrificed in the name of ‘progress.’

Even in death, did it not deserve peace?

He was done with this.

Gently handing the cards over to Pure Vanilla, he turned towards the room at large. Towards Lord Assam. Lord Criollo. To all these cookies that defiled the Virtue of Knowledge for the sake of the Pursuit of Knowledge.

(His to be impartial. His to seek the Truth. His to reserve judgement. But Judgment – Judgement was due.)

Nothing could be worth this.

“Why do you research Silver.”

(A demand. A Command. Divine Wrath, flame licking at the ice that caged it. Knowledge that would have its pound of dough, uncaring of the cost. If he needed to rip it from their heads-)

Compassion stood, solid and unyielding at his side. (What was Compassion, but Knowledge-offering-Mercy?)

His magic flexed – a warning – diffusing through the crowd of assembled cookies – a cookie staggered, another fell to his knees, jam trickled from another’s eyes, one’s nose, someone’s ears – Lord Assam’s eyes widened as he took a single step backwards even as – a tiny hairline fracture – the beginnings of a crack in crispy, healthy dough - the beginnings of fear – of hatred – in glaring eyes – he would have his Answer-

A hand, sliding into his own. Fingers sliding along his palm, his wrist, tracing over each digit soothingly, intimately.

(A tiny tremor, in that soothing touch.)

“Peace, Bluebell.” Compassion murmured, Truth reminding him of mercy.

His eyes closed, and he took in a deep, slow breath, let himself settle into the peace-love-acceptance still threaded through with quiet fury and allowed himself to relax into stillness, as Compassion had asked…as Truth had asked …as Pure Vanilla had asked.

He began the painstaking process of tucking his magic away, forcing Knowledge down inside himself. Lord Assam’s eyes burned. They never left his own.

He waited.

Then, voice tight, controlled. “I seek only to protect all the cookies of Baker-Yeast. From any that would do them harm.”

The implication was clear. ‘Even from you.’

Lord Assam’s voice never rose. But his eyes glittered. Like rubies. Like jam. “The world is on the brink of destruction. Cookies turning against cookies, our future is on the precipice of nothingness, and over half of our Virtues have gone mad. None of them are as they were. We must protect our future with our own hands. If that means a few sacrifices must be made, along the way- then so be it. The Protector of Solidarity knew that, before he Fell, for it was he who reminded our brothers in the Faeriewood of the price of unity; the debt we pay unto the future - and then helped us to remember the properties of silver.

“And…and if you would not help us – you who would turn your magic on us so easily – if you do not see the need for this insurance – this last resort – than you are just as lost as the rest of your kind.”

Something in him trembled.

(The words sounded like Knowledge.)

“You don’t- you don’t understand-“

“I think I understand well enough-“

He rushed past the crowd of silent, solemn cookies. Hands reaching for the papers scattered on tables, on chairs, on the floor.

An array? …containing- no, sealing. …Binding. Wait- a ritual?

A scrap of paper, fluttering slowly, drifting in a slow arc, to the ground.

“You can’t! You mustn’t! They don’t – they don’t deserve this! I’ll – I’ll fix this. I give you my word – on Knowledge itself – I’ll find a way to fix this-“

“And why should we believe you? After everything you’ve done? After what you’ve done to your own school?”

“You don’t Know anything-!”

“Even still- I know when a Beast needs to be put down-“  

“ENOUGH!”

Pure Vanilla stood over the various papers he’d rifled through. One parchment still half-curled in his hand.

He was shaking.

It was only now – as sight, as sound, as thought snuck back in – that he realized, just how much he’d lost control. Lord Assam, too – they both had. He was distantly aware of Lord Criollo tugging Lord Assam to the side, shock painted as clearly on Lord Assam’s face as his own.

(Everything was falling apart. The ugly, disgusting Truth laid bare.)

(It was cold comfort, that neither he nor Lord Assam could seem to bear it.)

Pure Vanilla was still shaking. He stumbled forwards, suddenly, reaching out for – Lord Assam. Something cold-yawning-vast-empty fracturing along their bond. The healer’s hands looked almost brittle, as they curled into the other cookie’s doublet. “You can’t. Anything but that. Don’t you see- it won’t work. You mustn’t. Please. You mustn’t.”

(Horror-desperation-anguish-despair. And yet – the words felt far too paltry for the depth of feeling in Pure Vanilla’s soul.)

Lord Assam looked bewildered. Shocked.

His own hands were shaking, as he reached for that fluttering page- just to be sure-

A binding ritual.

(…a Beast binding ritual.)

Chapter Text

It is Our Pain that Makes Us All (-----) After All

He snapped.

It was too much.

A swath of midnight blue magic, erupting from him near violently, gathering the various scattered papers and parchments. Pages and pages and pages of notes. Ideas and iterations and attempts at crafting an array. And then, when the researchers had forsaken the idea of an array – a ritual.

The papers all vanished in a flash of blue so dark it was almost black, tossed heedlessly into a tear in reality that warped and spun and made the mind hurt to look at and the eyes slid from.

He reached, jerkily, for Pure Vanilla, fingers (claws?) curling too tightly into the other’s dough, hair beginning to wave under the pressure of his own mana, curling unevenly. Eyes flicking open, simultaneously seen and unseen.

(He ignored the way cookies recoiled.)

Pure Vanilla was not quite dead weight, but he was staring blankly ahead. As if his body were here but his mind was far, far away.

(Panic, beginning to fracture across the thin veneer of control he still wore.)

“You will not attempt any more research into silver.”

(The last vestiges of mercy. Of pity. The last dregs of Knowledge that still clung to its purpose – impartially seeking Truths It would Hate-)

“Three days. At the Petitioner’s Court. Plead your case.”

His eyes swept across the assembled cookies.

(It was as if he could barely even see them.)

“Try me at your peril.”

Magic. Something monstrous and all consuming. A swirling void of power at the center of a galaxy of stars.

He disappeared, Pure Vanilla in his arms.

***

Assam sunk to his knees, even as he fell to the ground beside him. He barely noted the various other cookies that wobbled, trembled, shuddered as they all slowly began to escape the grip of terror that had consumed them.

His fellow lord’s stare was…concerningly vacant. There was…a a hairline fracture, a fault line, in once pristine, perfect dough. Assam reached up, hand moving so slowly it seemed almost… disconnected from the rest of him, brushing against that crumbling line. Trailing over one burning, jam-red eye, from brow to jaw. Then, slowly, something unholy, something violent, unfurled, in his expression.

He reached, unconsciously, for that hand. Held it desperately in his own. Anchoring. Slowly, Assam’s grip tightened around his. Clutched at him. A stranglehold.

“This is not the end.” Assam spoke like thunder. Gathering, before the blow.

He nodded once. Slowly. Swallowed, as something dark and foreboding shivered up his spine.

***

Pure Vanilla fell on him the moment they returned to the Spire.

Instinct had him bringing them both to the place he felt the safest – the place where Pure Vanilla would be the safest.

(That it happened to be Pure Vanilla’s guest room turned their bedroom was…unimportant.)

He’d meant to leave Pure Vanilla there, bundled up in blankets with the hearth roaring, stoked into brightness. He’d meant to try his hand at making some calming tea, maybe adding some vanilla to it, something to bring some semblance of life back into Pure Vanilla’s blank, empty gaze.

He didn’t get the chance.

One minute, he was trying to guide the larger cookie onto the bedspread; the next, a hand grasped his arm, so tightly he feared it would crack under the strain, and then his lips were otherwise occupied.

Desperation-fear roaring to life swiftly upon the heels of a tide of panic-terror-horror-not-his as Pure Vanilla tried to steal the very breath from his lungs; collapsed atop him upon their bed. Vanilla, overwhelming his every sense. Scent and taste, subsumed; pressure, holding his wrists in place; veritably dwarfed by the other cookie, locked into place in the cradle of the other’s arms. A hand, tugging insistently at the collar of his robes and tunic, until that mortifying marking upon his breast (his shame, that eternal reminder that some things were forbidden, unforgivable, that there was never meant to be freedom, salvation – not for him) was exposed between them. Tan and gold, eclipsing his vision, as Pure Vanilla finally collapsed against his chest, taking in great, heaving breaths against his dough.

Tears, dripping upon his heart.

Slowly, he began to coil around the other cookie. Tucking Pure Vanilla less against his breast and instead guiding the healer to hide in the hollow of his throat. Limbs and tail curling gently around the other even as he ran his claws soothingly through golden strands. Purring in earnest; a ragged, almost violent sound that might comfort them both. As an afterthought, he magicked the blanket over-top, protection; the veil of a tiny sanctuary between them and the world.

Please…please…

(But who were Gods supposed to pray to? Especially when some small part of him had begun to worship the very cookie shattering apart in his arms?)

So, all he could do was hold Pure Vanilla even more tightly, and secret away his tears, and beg an unkind, uncaring world, to stay outside, for a little longer.

***

Eventually, tears dried up.

Even an endless grief burnt itself out.

“...I’m sorry.” Pure Vanilla spoke, voice hoarse and ragged to his ears, well after the sobbing had slipped into silence.

He hummed softly, hands still working through the other’s hair, running gently up and down broad shoulders. “…don’t be. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

A single bark of short, bitter laughter pierced the hushed silence, before loneliness-despair-self-loathing spilled over their bond. It was…familiar. Painfully so. Pure Vanilla was – so kind – so good – he should never feel like that. Like he did.

A soft whine escaped him, animal and instinctive, before he was purring again, holding Pure Vanilla even tighter, trying to direct all the love, the adoration, the reverence he felt for the other cookie across their bond. “Please…please…don’t. You are – wonderful. You are everything to me. …I love you,” he whispered at last, swallowing roughly. He shuddered, full of embarrassment and fierce affection as he added, softer, “I love you.”

Something sick, almost dizzying swooped in his stomach, and he was shaking, even as he held on more tightly still. He…he would not – he would not take it back. Pure Vanilla was his Hope, the light in his soul, his beginning and ending no matter the journey along the way-

“You are animae dimidium meae.” The words escape him with all the reverence of a prayer.

Pure Vanilla shifted, just slightly. Just enough to hover over him once again, and he was rooted, spellbound, in the face of that light. A hand, featherlight, at his cheek, trailing down his neck, resting gently against the marking on his chest. “You keep… saying that,” Pure Vanilla whispered, voice still torn by his former tears, but something softer, more steady, in his eyes.

Swallowing thickly, feeling heat bloom across his cheeks, beneath that electrifying touch, he reached out, shaking claws curling around the hand at his breast, bringing it upwards. His lips grazed the back in a reverent kiss, an offering, fealty.

Fear and anticipation – hope and love – it felt as if he were offering himself up, to Pure Vanilla’s mercy, his judgement, his kindness. (Longing, quietly, for his compassion.)

“Half of my soul,” he translated, voice hushed. Swallowing, he continued, “…it’s an old story. Not true, of course. But…beautiful. Cookies that were… a little different. That found each other, even in the baking. Two-becoming-one, melded together. Two heads, four limbs, four eyes, two mouths. The Witches had to split them apart – for these were not cookies as the Divine intended – but they were ever one soul, in two bodies. Destined for each other, always searching to find one another, made complete by each other.” He reached up, claws brushing gently, tenderly, over the Soul Jam at Pure Vanilla’s breast. Shuddering, even as Pure Vanilla shuddered, a tiny pulse of magic flitting between them. “Soulmates.”

Something darkened, in the other cookies eyes, some spark of passion, of possession, even as heat bloomed across Pure Vanilla’s cheeks. Love-adoration-need-desire laid bare, between them. Pure Vanilla’s hand moved, feather light, down his chest, over faintly trembling dough, to rest across his belly.

(So close. To another damning imperfection. Another sin. Another offering, he would give up to this cookie, his Salvation, in a heartbeat. If Pure Vanilla but asked.)

The other cookie settled, a comforting weight across his hips, and then Pure Vanilla looked at him, so softly, so tenderly, “I want to make love to you.”

(His Hope had asked.)

He choked, hands coming up to hide his face as heat blossomed across his cheeks, and somewhere lower, deeper, in some nebulous place he couldn’t identify. (His tail curled, gently, around Pure Vanilla’s back, anticipation and anxiety throbbed in his heart). “I- I don’t know- I’m not- I’m not quite- What if I’m- I’ve never- I don’t know how-”

Something warm and tender, like liquid sunlight, glowing in his chest. Hands, peeling his claws away from his face. Lips pressing against his brow. “Then we learn, together.”

***

‘The most beautiful cookie in all the world.’

He’d thought that before, as he’d admired the shine in Blueberry Milk’s hair, the curve of his smile, the excited spark, in his eyes.

He Knew it, now.

The most beautiful cookie in all the world. Especially like this, hair mussed, a damp tangle that stuck to the other’s brow, Eyes visible but closed, as the other cookie dozed in his arms. Thin, wiry strength and unblemished dough. No fault lines, no fractures, no proof of life, except in the ink stains and calluses and the rough edges of corruption-stained claws. So very different from himself, who wore his life upon his dough. Here, where a frightened cream sheep had gored him. There, where a feral cake-hound had bit him. A burn from his days at the Academy, playing with fire and ovens when he should have known better.

And yet, perhaps that was what made the little oddities all the more appealing. Claws Blueberry Milk didn’t quite know what to do with, even as the other cookie clung to him. The tail that coiled and wagged in equal measure. The soft tufts of fur curling around the other’s hips, downwards. He hadn’t expected that. Had been a touch shocked, in truth, but there was something in feeling fear-shame change to hope-awe-reverence when he had simply acknowledged his own surprise and then moved on, fingers threading through the fluff as he traced along the curve of slim hips, lower. And when he’d realized how sensitive the other was-

He grinned, hiding the shape of it in his Fount’s hair, although he couldn’t quite mask the bubbling, eager, infatuated joy. Which, clearly, the other could feel, even in this state, if the way Blueberry Milk shifted, burrowing closer, was any indication. A soft press of lips against his chest, claws tracing nonsensical patterns across his dough; but, the other cookie made no move to leave his embrace. Instead, Blueberry Milk splayed out atop him very much like the cream-cat he insisted he wasn’t.

And maybe it was because of the hush, because of the weight of the Fount in his arms, the undeniable proof between them that Blueberry Milk was truly his, in every way that one cookie could be another’s, that he finally whispered, “I want to save you.”

(He would have to be careful. Reveal enough but not too much. Blueberry Milk was brilliant and he suspected that the other cookie Knew far more than he let on- but he was playing a dangerous game. Knowledge was dangerous.)

(The Truth was rarely kind. He still wanted to be kind.)

(He did not want to be the instrument of Blueberry Milk’s Fall.)

The other simply shifted closer, tail curling around his leg, even as claws slid around his chest. A head, tucking under his chin, even as he could feel the other’s hair curling around his fingers, the quiet regard of Eyes, flickering open. Anticipation-not-his and something darker, more lonely, unfurling between them.

But Blueberry Milk remained silent, as he continued.

“You were corrupting. Are corrupting. Even when I first met you. …forgetting your compassion, your hope, so lost in your own despair.”

There was no judgment in his voice, only gentle reassurance, coupled with the calm, steady love that pulsed between them. Even as Blueberry Milk shifted but didn’t deny that truth; had admitted it himself, so long ago.

(Wore that truth, exposed, upon his very dough, as if to acknowledge the unspoken reality of it between them. A quiet test, for the day Pure Vanilla would recoil.)

He never would.

“You are not as far gone as your…siblings? But you could be. It would have been…so easy. Natural, even. Why give kindness to a world that had long forsaken you? Long stopped being kind to you.”

Claws, pricking at his dough, as shame-self-loathing-acceptance tangled in the shadow of his heart.

His own arms, wrapping too-tight around the thin cookie in his embrace. The beginnings of desperation, of fear, shining through.

(For all the things that change, so much more remained the same.)

“But you mustn’t, Bluebell. You mustn’t. That way…that way lies only pain. Only suffering. Only sorrow. And not just…not just for you.

“Lies…death, turmoil, they all beget consequences, Blueberry Milk. I’ve…seen the shape of it. First…before. And now – even here – the wheel of Fate keeps turning. Horribly, horribly cruel…consequences.”

Shaking, forcing himself to finish what he started, he whispered, “Cruelty begets cruelty. Indifference begets indifference. Suffering begets suffering. Consequence begets consequence. …that binding ritual…” swallowing, voice roughening even more with pain, he added, “that ‘beast binding ritual’ – it is yours, beloved, as much as it is your siblings’.”

Shifting, Blueberry Milk pulled away, but not too far. (Never too far. Just enough – to See.) The feel of Eyes on him, hair fanning open like a living thing; hackles raised. Like a bird, with wings outstretched, to present as something more fearsome than it truly was. Blank shock-emptiness-not-his coiling in the shadows of his heart.

Blueberry Milk’s hair, when he reached out to touch one of the uneven strands felt less like hair and more like liquid. The interplay of greater and lesser shadow gave the impression of a wide-eyed stare.

Intensity coupled with the stillness and silence – It was too familiar.

(His final shame, his final confession, tumbling from his lips. Begging for absolution.)

“…it would break you, Bluebell. Being sealed like that. To Know such pain and suffering, to endure it…you would become a shadow of yourself.” His lips twisting into a painful little smile, as he traced the curve of the Fount’s cheek, that tell-tale scar that was both beginning and ending. “…pain begets pain, Blueberry Milk.”

He could feel it. A stutter, a tiny hitch of breath. He suddenly wished, desperately, for his staff, his Eyes, to See but – at the same time – he did not wish to.

(Was this all he was good for? To bear witness to his other half’s suffering?)

Shaking. He drew Blueberry Milk downwards, into the cradle of his arms, as the first stirrings of fear, of horror, curled between them. Dampness at his neck. Hair and tail coiling around his form. Loneliness-misery-anguish-resignation-

“No! Bluebell! This is- I am trying to- I am trying to change it!” And now he was pushing Blueberry Milk away, summoning his vanilla beholder in an agitated flicker of magic, because he needed the Fount to understand- to see- he needed to be right- “I am changing it. You- you heard, right? Back in Cremefeld? You remember? You would not be there? You said that-“

I have to be. Please. I have to be. I beg of you- if there was ever kindness, goodness, in this world, please.

It was with something almost frenetic, a sort of desperate worry that he searched Blueberry Milk’s face for some kind of acknowledgement, understanding. Recognition.

Lips, curling, something soft and gentle, something broken and accepting-

He pulled the other close, hiding away that smile. He did not like that smile.

He hated that smile.

Despair-his-not-his in the shadow of his heart.

“You bear Truth, dear heart.” Blueberry Milk’s words hung, suspended, like the somber, final toll of a bell. A death knell.

“And your Soul Jam is still whole!” Desperation, lacing each word. Hands, painfully tight around thin shoulders.

With jerky, uncoordinated movements, he reached for Eyes – for the Other Realm – he’d touched it once before – a flailing, disjointed expansion of magic for Truth would always seek Knowledge what was the point of Truth without Knowledge? – show him – the Truth in his soul – undeniable – it had to be – undeniable – he needed Blueberry Milk to Know, to See – make him See – he was right, he had to be right – except he was seeking something all-consuming, inexorable, inevitable – fear – blinding terror – “Stop it! Pure Vanilla!"

(Only Compassion could stand at Knowledge’s side, uncontested.)

Jam. Dripping, from his nose. Carving tear tracks, down his face. His head, throbbing, his soul feeling strangely empty-

A heavy presence, on his chest, something long swaying back and forth agitatedly along the bare expanse of his abdomen. Pressure and warmth, noise and vibration that rattled through his head, the sugar-bones of his skull. The scent of blueberries and soured milk, in his nose.

Soft, hitching breath. Sobs, in his ear.

(It might have been amusing. Blueberry Milk was clearly sitting on his chest and face in the way only a cream-cat that was the size of a cookie could do. But this was a cookie. Who feared for him. Feared to hurt him. Feared and loathed the nature of his own existence in equal measure.)

Soured-milk, in his nose.

(He hadn’t realized, Blueberry Milk’s scent hadn’t completely warped. Not until now.)

…why. Why does this always- no matter what I do I always- White Lily in my ignorance and foolishness and love; Dark Cacao, Hollyberry and Golden Cheese in my fear and regret; Shadow Milk in my lies, no matter how necessary, and now – again – Blueberry Milk – in my silence and my impulse and words because I cannot bear - I cannot bear... – coward – you coward – wake up – ‘deceit is kindness upon ourselves’

This can’t go on.

Shuddering, arms moving slowly, lethargically, wrapping around the other cookie’s middle, before settling around furry hips, fingers gently threading through each tuft and curl. He scratched gently at the base of the other’s tail, as if hoping to still the distressed thrashing. Comfort.

There was a moment where the violently loud rumbling rattling in his skull cut off abruptly, before it restarted, even louder. Blueberry Milk’s arms tightened around his head, claws flexing against his dough, before he was nearly overwhelmed by healing magic that seemed less a purposeful healing and more a demand that his body simply right itself.

He pressed a kiss to a thin chest, whispering brokenly, “Forgive me. I…should not have done that. …I let my own fears and anxieties get the better of me. …and you had to pay the price.”

Blueberry Milk went noticeably silent for a long moment, his purring stuttering. Then, he slowly began to shift, each movement halting, as if the other cookie could not decide if he wished to coil around him or lose himself in his embrace, instead.

Slowly, gently, he guided the other cookie to nestle against him, hand running up and down Blueberry Milk’s chest, tracing out the marking there, down unblemished dough, towards the fur that decorated the other low on his belly; it was only when the Fount’s tail coiled around his arm, claws curling around his middle; when each ragged, silent sob was hidden away against his neck that he finally begged, near silent confession, “Forgive me. I am sorry. So very, very sorry, Blueberry Milk.”

“…do you not understand? I cannot lose you-“

Drawing the other cookie even closer, he retorted, voice sharper, more desperate, more frenetic, more honest, than he’d intended, “I cannot lose you, Bluebell!”

Tears, dripping against his dough. He shuddered, clutched more tightly still, wanting to apologize but not wanting to back down, and yet fearing that he must.  That something was still wrong, that he had taken a wrong turn, somewhere – because while something good could hurt, could cause pain, if it was the right method – healing should come afterwards-

Desperation-loneliness-despair in the shadow of his heart. Resignation-acceptance-sufferance- lips, on his own. Sharp, biting fangs, noses and chins bumping against each other; claws, grabbing his hands, bringing them to cup at the curling fur between Blueberry Milk’s thighs; ignore-disregard-hopelessness-insistence(quiet-misery) bubbling between them.

It was an out.

It was easy.

He took it.

(Coward. ‘Deceit is kindness upon ourselves.’ How long will you let him hurt himself, for you?)

Chapter Text

Because I Knew You/I have been Changed (for Good)

He didn’t know what to do.

He’d needed- he’d needed – a moment.

Just one single, crystalline moment – to hide. To think. To process.

Mind torn, thoughts drifting in too many directions at once – he hid. Tucked himself away in some shadowed, decrepit corner of his Spire and just…sat. Amongst dirt and dust and stone. Let his mind race because there was simply no stopping it.

Falling. He was falling. Had fallen. A sealing ritual. A beast binding ritual. Because he was falling. Had fallen. But he hadn’t- he hadn’t done anything! Well, that wasn’t – strictly true – he’d stopped caring about the Answers, at some point – what did a Truth or a Lie matter, when no one listened to the response all the same? And he’d crafted Dark Moon Magic, nearly destroyed his- he swayed, claws coming up to dig at his temples as he tugged at his hair.

Destroyed his Academy. No- he hadn’t- But his Academy was destroyed- Where was he? Where was he? He’d have never left it undefended, would have never let it fall to ruin-

Sealed. He was sealed.

(Jam, beginning to drip in tiny rivulets down his temples. Spilling, from the reopened wound that bisected his cyan eye. Eyes – staring and sightless. Corruption oozing black, staining the once pristine galaxy of his hair. A void, expanding.)

A sudden, tiny bark of agonized, hysterical laughter. His claws, at his mouth, his throat, trying to choke the noise back.

Sealed? I was…sealed? Even after- after everything? Everything I’ve given – sacrificed? Because I- because I want? Because I’m not perfect? Because I can’t give them the Answers they want to hear – so they want me gone?! Damned by the Truth – damned by a Lie – is nothing I do good enough?! A single moment of- of weakness- and they’re willing to lock me away – like some animal – and – and – dress it up – as if I were- I were the threat? As if I were the monster?

(His claws, digging tiny furrows into his dough. His jaw creaking, with the force needed to bite back a scream.)

He tipped sideways, shoulder slamming painfully into shattered stonework in his shadowed little corner, claws scrabbling tightly against his dough, his hair; to focus on something – anything – else – the pain, the jam dripping down his dough, the tears obscuring the remains of his vision, the chill of the Spire, nipping at his heels, slicing through the loose, threadbare shirt he wore-

Knowledge prickled. Quiet, insistent, directing his thoughts towards-

(The one thing he had been ignoring, all this time.)

Time travel.

No. It’s not that simple. I don’t even know the kind of time travel we’re dealing with. Pure Vanilla may not have necessarily returned to the past of his own timeline. Other world-lines exist; alternate universes that cookies can jump between. What’s more, there is no guarantee that an alternate universe would not be exactly the same as the original; that the choices made would not be the same – cookies are just that – cookies-

Causality.

Only demands consistency. Given that I have not felt the Laws-of-the-World unraveling at the seams; that one of those so-called ‘timekeepers’ has not shown up – hah, as if the World does not ever seek to correct itself – all that has been shown is that we remain ‘within bounds’ of causality.

…

It’s a puzzle! It cannot be denied, that Nilly is changing things – his choices have borne consequences – I would not have been interested in Cremefeld, for one. And now, I know of that ridiculous ‘binding ritual’ of the Institute. I’ve cleaned up the silver around Cremefeld, the ley- …Free will still exists. My own choices, his choices, they both still hold meaning, things can change because they have changed- 

Contradiction.

No. An apparent contradiction only implies a lack of understanding of relevant knowledge. These two truths remain inviolate: ‘causality must be preserved’ and ‘choice begets consequence.’ Cookies are made up of their individual circumstances and their natural inclinations and causality is not linear – to change even the tiniest variable is to invite countless possibilities – the future is something we make, every day – the flap of a crystal-fly’s wings might one day invite the storm-

…………Truth, born of Knowledge.

I- I wasn’t thinking…logically, before. Coming to the proper conclusion. Because that, that doesn’t mean anything. Or rather, all it actually means is that I need to divest a fragment of my own power to ensure Truth’s existence. And frankly, if I must split that damn rock in two myself – I would! It would be a small price to pay, to have Pure Vanilla ever at my side.

Rather, the fact that Truth can exist, here and now, means that his existence is not predicated upon some presupposed future event.

…or causality is still preserved.

No! Pure Vanilla was right – it must mean something that Truth can coexist with Knowledge! If things were so absolute, so inevitable – that Truth can only exist as consequence of Knowledge’s…destruction …… then the Light of Truth would have disappeared the day Pure Vanilla came here. The Light of Truth would have returned to me, as the Origin. Because it is my Soul Jam – my Divinity and office – my Soul – because- Truth exists within me. I am Truth – I am Deceit – I am Knowledge- I am still whole-

Truth is derivative. Compassion’s gain is not Knowledge’s loss.

(Knowledge, prickling at his subconscious. Insistent.)

… Causality is not so kind.  

…No one knows the intricacies of Time-Space better than me. No one understands the Laws-of-the-World better than me.

(Time and Space. Intimately connected in a way only Knowledge could truly Know. Dark Moon Magic – forbidden magic – something akin to Witches’ Magic – warping reality itself. Portals – the safest, least sacrilegious aspect of Dark Moon Magic. At its core, Dark Moon Magic was Knowledge’s attempt at rewriting the Law according to His own will-)

Causality is inviolate. I Know that. But. Free Will still exists because we are ever reaping the consequences of our actions. Time travel does not negate that fact.

……………There is only one way causality and consequence can coexist. I Know it.

I cannot Know my own future!

I cannot?

…I do not wish to Know.

…

(He fell. Slowly. Head bowed. Crumpled further onto cold, unforgiving stone. Hid amidst the rubble. Shadows, creeping, consuming. Tears. From his eyes. His Eyes.

Growing. Sprouting.

Living Despair, blooming. A cradle of white.)

I do not want this.

Knowledge does not have wants.

I am not only Knowledge!

…I am not only Knowledge.

There must… there must be a better way. There must. Must his life be bought with my jam? It’s cruel. It’s too cruel.

 I…causality… causality only demands consistency. Causality demands Truth’s existence, and Truth’s presence, first in the future and then here, now. It doesn’t demand…a method, surely? It doesn’t necessarily demand my sealing – it demands the consequence of my sealing. Absence for however long I was ‘sealed’ for. How that happens is irrelevant. Must be irrelevant. Because things have changed.

If not- if not- it would mean nothing has changed at all-

All this-

No. I know of the Beast Binding Ritual, now. I would never let them seal me. How could I be sealed, now that I know of it? It would be so easy- destroy it, ensure such a magic never see the light of day- or, actually, better yet, dissect it, control it, turn it to my advantage. Show my cookies that I will protect them – let them have that ‘insurance’ – I don’t have to let it work on me; make it work for me- …frankly, a binding ritual on the others might give me enough time to figure out a way to fix them – it doesn’t even have to be a binding ritual, stasis, sleeping, anything – I’m sure that’s what Salt was thinking, too, regardless of whatever Lord Assam thinks, before he went, well-

…

…I am finally happy. I finally have…everything I ever wanted. Someone who wants- me. The God, the Cookie, the things that make me more and less than both. I am more than just some cold and unfeeling principle that underpins reality and he- he sees me-

I would do anything for him.

(More blossoms. Tiny white blooms, rising from the ground below, saturated from tears, from divine jam, from black ichor that oozed from his hair, his eyes, his wounds – like rot.

Flowers upon a deathbed.)

Must I forsake myself, that Truth might live?

Knowledge will be…changed.

…I do not fear change.

…even if it breaks you?

…I am already broken.

I suppose you are. (A huff of laughter. Wry. Accepting. A little sad. Echoing. Everywhere. Within and without.) I suppose I am. …I won’t regret it.

I won’t regret it.

(I love him/I love him.)

***

He had panicked, when he realized Blueberry Milk was gone. It had been so long since he’d last woken up to an empty bed and the unoccupied hollow where Blueberry Milk should have been.

It was cool, to the touch.

(Was Blueberry Milk okay? Where was he – had it been too much? It had been cowardly, to let the Fount distract him with his body. He knew that. Hated himself a little, for it. Hated himself even more, when he realized that he somehow felt lighter, now. As if telling the truth, even a partial, oblique version of it had lanced some wound, deep inside of him.

Was this all he was good for? Was this all he would do? Take and take and take from this cookie that had already given all of himself?

What sort of cookie did he want to be?)

Near flinging himself out of the bed, only longstanding familiarity had him narrowly avoiding the nightstand. Casting about the scattered remains of their clothing he snagged the first pair of breeches he found – his – before giving up on finding his undershirt as a lost cause and racing out into the hallway.

A simple spell glowing softly in his hand – one he’d learned and used often during his days at the Academy – a whispered, ‘Guide me,’ and he was nearly running through the chilled corridors of the Spire.

(He had forgotten. How bleak, how foreboding, the Spire could be. The Spire of Shadows had been dark, filled with twisting turns and dead ends and stairways to nowhere. The perfect counterpoint to Shadow Milk’s moods and trickery. The Spire of All-Knowledge was almost well lit in comparison, somber and shadowed in parts, yes, but also – filled with large windows that cut through the darkness with light.

He had never outright asked, but, given some of the things Shadow Milk had said; given some observations he’d made while living in the Spire with his Beast for so long, even if at different points of his life; he suspected the Spire was a reflection of the Fount’s soul, his thoughts and feelings, an extension of his will rather than something completely separate and vaguely sentient. Either way, the Spire offered another illustration of that Truth that Blueberry Milk and Shadow Milk so often, so easily, hid.

Something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.

At least the Spire seemed willing to help him find his Bluebell without too much trouble.)

When he found the other cookie, he was in the shattered remains of what might once have been a private garden. Overgrown with flora – creeping vines over weathered stone, great trees that blocked out the sunlight, licorice chains and the rotten remains of a swing of rolled-log wood hanging from one branch. It was as if this had once been a secret, peaceful retreat, long lost to the ravages of time and forsaken by all who had once loved it.

(Abandoned, much like the cookie who had retreated here. An animal, licking his wounds.)

Blueberry Milk lay upon a bed of ghostly flowers; had tucked himself into a shadowed corner of stone and creeping vine and ruin, shivering, coated in jam and black ichor. Even his hair had dulled, lost its brilliance. A dying star.

(But Pure Vanilla could barely comprehend any of that.)

White flowers.

White flowers.

-five petaled star – five-pointed crown – ghostly pale – strangely hardy, blooming anywhere for all their delicacy-

Familiar flowers.

He staggered.

Milkcrowns.

He fell down to his knees beside Blueberry Milk, gathering the other cookie into his arms, barely cognizant of the fact that the reason he’d been unable to find his undershirt was because here the Fount was, wearing it.

“Bluebell?! Bluebell!!-“ He started, panicked, before his words petered out, thoughts stalling into stillness.

Milkcrowns. These were- milkcrowns. He’d seen them. In books, at the Academy. Before. And for the first time, in person, around the Spire. An ancient, mysterious flower. Best known for legends for – tears-

Something in him shattered.

The Spire had been coated in them.

(Growing, amongst weathered, half crumbled marble-cake. Crawling along the windowpanes. Littering the courtyards in ghostly white. The banks of the Yogurt River of Rebirth. Even in the outlying-?)

(He’d never cared to ask Shadow Milk about their existence. Had assumed (just as everyone had assumed) that they had grown from the tears of all those who had suffered under the ‘tender mercies’ of deceit.  Had wondered, with dark humor, if maybe he’d added to them himself. But Truthless Recluse he had been unable to dredge up much interest in the macabre display, nor enough empathy to care for another’s long forgotten suffering in the face of his own.

Shadow Milk, on the other hand, had simply ignored them. Passed them by as if he couldn’t see them. Crushed them carelessly, when manipulating the Spire in one of his tricks or on little more than whim. And yet, he remembered – distantly, as if watching through a foggy pane of sugarglass – a blank, expressionless face. Clawed hands, brushing gently over a single white petal. Silence. A bowed head, slumped shoulders- a moment of genuine truth from a cookie who wrapped himself up in lies-

Back then, he had turned away.)

Because, of course. Of course, it had been too much. To have been told of the future; to have been told of his wretched fate – even if kindly, even though he had tried to give the impression of a picture while obscuring the details, avoided ‘Shadow Milk’ entirely; the depravity the Fount had sunk to, the horrors his future self had wrought upon the world, upon him – it was still too much. If- if someone had told him of White Lily’s eventual fate, back in the Academy, of Dark Enchantress and the Dark Flour War and all the cookies he’d failed- he’d- he didn’t know what exactly he’d have done but- it wouldn’t have been good.

…he’d have been unable to take it, too.

A tear. Blooming. Before his very eyes.

(He curled around Blueberry Milk, holding the Fount even tighter. Shaking.)

And yet- why? Why had his Bluebell come here, now? Hidden away in his suffering, his pain? He would have- he wanted to- he would never forsake Blueberry Milk Cookie. Would never forsake Shadow Milk Cookie. Pure Vanilla would never abandon the cookie who was the other half of his soul.

Who did he want to be?

He was so much more than the despair of the Truthless Recluse; Compassion, he had chosen Compassion despite despair, through despair-

And so here and now, he did what he could not do, back then. What he should have done, back then. He gathered the cookie before him in his arms, heedless of the jam and corruption that stained the other’s dough. Rising, cradling the other close, as if he were holding something sacred, he turned back towards the Spire, towards warmth and light and life. A cleansing bath sounded wonderful, right about now.

(He left the milkcrowns behind.)

***

It was with gentle reverence that he lowered Blueberry Milk into the bath, before tenderly wiping away the grime that clung to the other cookie, cloth tracing along the curve of a thin chest, soft belly, between the other’s thighs, each dirt-smeared foot.

(He had had this cookie. In all the ways that one could have another; watched, as Blueberry Milk fell apart in his arms, had been right there with him; and yet – somehow, this felt even more intimate.

Perhaps, it was because Blueberry Milk let him. Didn’t try and hide away his suffering or his tears. Didn’t attempt to conceal the oddities of his anatomy, the fur that spread from low on his belly to nearly mid-thigh. Somehow, it made sense. Of course, there was fur. This cookie was already a cream-cat in so many ways – from his long, tufted tail to his purring – this was just natural progression.)

Slowly, that tail lifted from the water to settle in a weak coil around his arm.

He looked up, pausing in his cleaning. Blueberry Milk’s eyes were still…unfocused.

“Bluebell?” His voice was soft, hushed.

The tail tightened, just slightly.

“Would you…would you…love me? Even if I…even if I…lost myself? …Changed?” the Fount's lips quirked into a broken smile. “’Became a shadow of myself?’”

His hand clenched, white knuckled, around his cloth. He wanted to deny even the idea of it. Blueberry Milk was changing – he would not allow the other cookie to lose himself, to be sealed, to fall – what was the point of his being here, if not to ensure that? – but this wasn’t about that.  

(A cookie. So terribly, terribly lonely; who had long forgotten gentleness, whose kindness came with claws; who had long forsaken a world that had forsaken him.

A cookie. Whose hope had been snuffed out – cold and dead without even the memory of warmth; whose faith had turned to ash – falling through his claws like something inevitable. Whose love lay, dark and silent; chill embers at his feet.)

He shuddered. At the words, at his thoughts, before forcing himself to be present. To see the cookie before him. To stare at the ugly, wretched, loathsome Truth. He was not Truth. Just as he was not Knowledge. Rather – he was that which saw the Truth. Saw Deceit. Saw Knowledge. In its entirety. Saw the sin, the filth, those so-called disgusting parts Truth hated of himself (his hand passed, gently, along the other cookie’s furry belly) and chose to love them anyway.

Who did he want to be.

(Love him gently. Kindly. Softly. Love with hands that healed, that encouraged. Love for the future-that-could be, and not the past-that-was nor the present-that-is. Love – that Truth, that Deceit, that Knowledge, might grow, might heal, might one day understand that he didn’t have to be anything but his beautiful, patchwork, perfectly imperfect self. Might learn to love himself.)

He was Compassion.

(Blueberry Milk and Shadow Milk were one and the same. He had hurt and had been hurt. He had been unable to save one; might be unable to save the other. It would break him. But he had been broken before. Had shattered apart and lost his faith and found it again. Found it in himself to hope, again. And he would keep doing it. Again and again and again and again until Truth, until Deceit, until Knowledge stood unabashed at his side in the sun.)

He was crying. Softly. It felt like absolution. Tears dripping from his eyes and a fine tremor threading through his frame. But it didn’t stop him from slowly, gently, leaning over to press a tender kiss to the keyhole branded into Blueberry Milk’s chest. “Always.” A vow.

A shift. Claws, brushing his tears from his eyes before moving to hold him quietly against the hesitant, soothing, instinctive rumble in Blueberry Milk’s chest. Hands, working gently through his hair. “You won’t forget me?”

“Never. No matter what happens, I’ll wait for you. …So, wait for me, too?”

Blueberry Milk’s lips quirked into a more melancholy smile as he murmured, “It will always be you. …I’ll wait. No matter how long. I’ll always wait for you.”

“Always?”

“Always.”

Chapter Text

Protecting your Life, I Ask for That and Nothing More

Something had changed, that fateful day. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but it felt a little more than resignation, a little less than peace.

(Acceptance.)

He was still plagued by unease. Still wanted Blueberry Milk within arm’s reach. They had been tactile, before. Touch had often been laced with desperation. With anxiety. Had been a means of grounding, of forcing them both to be present.

(It still was, of course. But there was something more to it, now. Some bittersweet sorrow.)

He still wanted to hold the Fount close. Did, as the other cookie crawled into his lap, tucked his head under his chin, wrapped himself up in his arms as if he were trying to sink into the hollow of his heart.

It wasn’t about nakedness, even as Blueberry Milk might parade around in little more than a stolen undershirt or tunic; would purr softly, each time he pet at some furry portion of the other cookie’s dough.

(It felt like living memory. Warm and sepia and golden, liquid sunlight and halcyon days. A tiny warmth for dark nights ahead.)

***

Three days.

Three days grace. To be broken down, reforged in the crucible of fate, built anew.

(There was so little time.)

(He was running out of time.)

(He would not turn his gaze away from fate. Not anymore. Nor would he give into despair, and let the future pass him by, without resistance. No. If he was to choose Compassion, acceptance, perhaps the answer was to simply try. So that, whatever came to pass, both he and Blueberry Milk could face each other, heads held high. Because they hadn’t given up. Not on each other. Not in the face of Fate itself.)

He would not go quietly.

Perhaps Blueberry Milk had come to a similar conclusion, because he reached for the Institute’s research with solemn, focused intensity. Poured over it, with something that was neither manic energy nor grim determination. It was as if Blueberry Milk was caught at a crossroads, betwixt hope and reason, looking for the path forward despite the thorns that surrounded them. The other cookie combed through research notes he already Knew as if looking for the way they might have changed. As if wishing they would, but not quite daring to believe they might.

But there were tiny flickers of intensity, of endearment, which prevented a completely somber atmosphere. There was something endlessly charming about watching Blueberry Milk pour over a stack of papers, monocle perched against his nose, starlight hair pulled haphazardly into a knot at his back. Watching claws alternate between flipping through pages and scratching down notes in parchment margins in increasingly tiny, illegible letters and shorthand, or tugging at a silver fringe.

(This was still the same excitable cookie he adored.)

Carefully depositing a glass of warm milk at the Fount’s elbow, he moved to encircle the other cookie, one hand sliding down the other’s chest as he buried his nose in Blueberry Milk’s hair. Still a little sharper, headier; a little more tart than before. But, cut through as it was by blueberry, by that ephemeral, nameless scent that was the crisp freshness of a night sky, it wasn’t unpleasant. Fermentation, not spoilage. (New, but still his Bluebell, in the end. …he wondered if this was what Shadow Milk would have smelled like, if the other cookie had not been so quick to hide himself away.)

The Fount purred gently for a moment, tail snaking between them to coil around his leg even as he tilted his head upwards to press a soft kiss against his lips. Then, the other cookie turned his attention to the milk he’d been gifted. He watched silently, patiently, as Blueberry Milk examined his newest creation, before the taking a cautious sip.

Idly, his eyes drifted to the parchments his other half had been so consumed by. He could barely see a thing, just the impression of black upon a pale background, and yet, it was obvious. Could only be one thing. The Institute’s research notes. Sighing, eyes closing, he centered himself. Equanimity. (He knew. He knew he needed to accept this. Had chosen acceptance. But action was so much harder than mere words.) The beginnings of fear, of desperation, of apprehension – those old, insistent feelings he was learning to let go of – but they were smoothed over by the claws that tugged his hand further down the Fount’s chest and the vibration, calming and soothing, in his ear and against his dough.

He sighed, relaxing despite himself. Releasing his anxiety into the ether. Allowing himself to feel that other, newer emotion – soft and sad and bittersweet – that had begun to take up residence in his chest. And still, he could not help the way he leaned a little more heavily against Blueberry Milk’s chair, arm coiling a little tighter around the other cookie. Could not help the way he asked, a little plaintively, as if the answer might change, “can’t we just burn it?”

A familiar sort of amused-sorrow in the shadow of his heart, before the Fount chose instead to divert his attention back to his newest offering. He gently shook the glass, asking, “What’s in this? Sweet but also…spice? Not just milk but…vanilla?”

Sighing, a little embarrassed, a little annoyed (at himself for being unable to let go, at his Bluebell for so obviously ignoring his very valid concerns) he let his head fall to rest gently against Blueberry Milk’s, before he tugged the Fount upwards, towards the library sofa and the fireplace. Even if he were learning to reach for equanimity, it still helped, being able to tangle himself up in the other cookie to his heart’s content.

(Blueberry Milk carried the papers with him in a cloud of cobalt magic.)

“And cinnamon and honey, too. I wanted to…find a way to combine both our…base ingredients. If I could.” He started, easing as the Fount leaned into his chest, relaxing as his hand moved to rest gently on the legs and tail draped over his lap. “Does it…taste okay?” He asked, quietly.

A soft purr, a gentle nuzzle. “Delicious. But then again, isn’t it obvious? Milk and Vanilla go together perfectly. In a beverage, in a custard…always meant to be together.”

He sighed softly, as that strange, sorrowful contentment enveloped him. “Yes. Meant to be together. Always.” Arm curling around the other cookie’s waist, his fingers trailed gently under the edge of cloth, tracing along the line of soft fur. Blueberry Milk’s tail waved slowly, lethargically, at the action, before coiling around his other arm, until only the tip fluttered back and forth.

Then, with a quiet, fatigued sigh, Blueberry Milk gently deposited the papers between them.

“…we should just burn them,” he said again, a little hopelessly, with an exhausted sigh of his own.

Something affectionately chiding, in the shadows of his heart. “Ignoring this is not going to make it go away, nor stop my sealing, Nilla.”

It was as if he had been doused in ice-cold soda water, with none of the usual protections afforded his crisp cookie form. His hand went from gentle presence to too tight around the cookie against him. (His Bluebell had said it. Blueberry Milk had said it. There was no dreaming everything would be okay; it was real, there, between them- Something numbing, a familiar fear that tried to raise its head, a terror that smiled warmly at him, greeting him like an old friend-)

Purring. Soothing, calming, grounding- even as fear-sorrow-not-his bloomed between them. “It’s okay, Nilla. I’m not going to just…surrender and let them seal me. I think…you may be right, you know. Starting with Cremefeld. Things have changed.”

He frowned, as Truth pulsed dully in his mind. How could something be both a Lie and a Truth, at the same time? “What do you-?” He started, before pausing. There had been a sort of clarity, in Compassion. His Truth was in perceiving – embracing – the Truths of others. But there were moments of dissonance that Truth alone could not parse between. It was something he had…only truly noticed, when they’d spoken to Lord Assam. That cookie’s every word had seemed a Lie and Truth all at once, in a way that was difficult to disentangle. Only Compassion had disentangled it. But while Compassion was there, quiet and waiting, gentle and bright, like sunlight, it was not something he could just…fall into. Not like how his Bluebell could pull Knowledge to the fore.  

(The difference, between becoming and being.)

Taking a slow, deep breath of blueberries-fermented milk, hand slipping down the other cookie’s chest to tangle in soft fur, he acknowledged his fear, his hopelessness…and his hope. He would not falter. But that sometimes meant trying – and failing. Still believing in, hoping for, a better future- for everyone, for all cookies, even the ones forsaken by the world, by fate, the one in his arms- “Are you…implying…?”

Lips, pressed reassuringly against his neck, even as claws tapped against the papers between them. “While you were engaging in your culinary escapades,” he snorted, hiding a smile in the other’s hair. Playfully exasperated and endlessly fond calmer, he poked the other cookie in the cheek and was rewarded with a smug grin and a damp digit as Blueberry Milk licked it for his trouble. “As I was saying. While you were engaging in your culinary escapades, I’ve been thinking. And reviewing these notes. And I think I understand what the Institute was up to, now. With Cremefeld, I mean.”

He waited, silent, something hesitant and hopeful tugging at his chest. Blueberry Milk was purring again, softly, in that gentle way he had when the Fount realized he needed soothing. “As you know, this is a…binding ritual. A sealing ritual. I don’t think…you were actually there when I explained the mechanics of a ritual. But essentially, to perform a ritual, you need three things. First, reliable access to the leylines. Second, a way to teach the magic that which it is meant to do. Third …a boundary.

“For the first…the most reliable way to access the leylines is at a point of confluence. It is also especially important that a mage – for example, one attempting to perform a working well beyond their capability; or an ordinary cookie with little natural magical affinity – access the leylines where they are most concentrated. On other words, a nexus.”

He twitched. This was much too close to veering into territory that he simply did not have the mental fortitude to contemplate. (Leylines into magical circuitry into Earthbread into the cosmic horror that was ‘Witches’-) Put it away. Put it away. You have more important battles that you must face, in the here and now, Pure Vanilla. You must not falter. He frowned, mind snagging on an inconsistency. “So…the ritual was meant to be performed…here? And you… were all meant to be sealed…here? …In Gnosia, I mean.”

Caution, and something sharp and attentive and not his, coiling in the shadow of his heart. One of the Eyes in Blueberry Milk’s hair flickered open as the other cookie asked, “Why do you…sound so surprised by that.”

Lips pressing unconsciously into Blueberry Milk’s starlight tresses, his arm curling more tightly around the other cookie, he took a moment to organize his thoughts. “Because… I am beginning to realize that… my understanding of events might be…incomplete. This is not… where you were all ultimately sealed. I know that much. But the…specifics of it – the reasons why and how – that was all according to things I’d been told, the few surviving records kept by the victors. …both undoubtedly biased and infinitely less valuable than what I observed and came to understand in my time spent with you, with the cookies of Cremefeld and Heidelbeere, in the here and now.”

A quiet anxiety, from the cookie in his embrace. A vague sense of nausea while his vanilla beholder caught something pinched, in the expression that regarded him. “How do you mean?” Blueberry Milk asked, softly, a quiet tremor in his words. Th Fount’s tail coiled around his arm more tightly, even as cool dough leaned more heavily into his chest and side.

Hand restarting its soothing caress up and down the other’s dough, he said, “For example, I was told that your corruption was the result of your power; a blanket ‘absolute power corrupts absolutely.’ As if there was no nuance, were no shades of grey. As if this was a path you just…chose one day, inevitable, apropos of nothing, and not something your circumstances …other cookies… pushed you towards, even as it was you who took that first step.”

Loneliness-shame-regret-self-loathing-sorrow, echoing in the shadow of his heart. He reached instinctively for the other, drawing the Fount into his lap entirely, hands seeking corrupted claws before wrapping their twined fingers around the other cookie. “No, Bluebell, I didn’t mean it like that-“

A soft, tired laugh, even Blueberry Milk coiled closer still, that familiar self-deprecating-self-loathing prickling between them. “I…I know, dear heart. I only…wonder what it might have been like. For you to have met me…before I was…this.”

His arms tightened of their own accord. Blueberry Milk’s words; the gesture that had accompanied them- “I do not believe I could do anything but love you, Bluebell.” He said, before the other could curl in on himself entirely. “But if our circumstances were different, perhaps this would be different. I…I’d probably have been content to love you from afar.”

Shock-bewilderment-dismay(hurt), in the shadow of his heart. His arms tightened around the other cookie in reflex, even as he pulled Blueberry Milk closer, leaned more heavily against the other, in turn. “I do not mean I would not have loved you, beloved. I would have. I will always love you. But you are forgetting what love is. What gives life to love. What keeps it strong, what nurtures it, what makes it grow.

“My love for you is found in…your Truths, Bluebell. In your triumphs and tragedies, in your faults and your excellence, in your divinity and your cookiehood. …in your corruption, as much as your perfection. If I had known you before, seen you before, would you have gifted me all this?” As he talked, his hand slid, gently, from the corrupted lines that ruined his Fount’s face, brushing away the jam and black ichor that slipped down one cheek, to the keyhole branded into Blueberry Milk’s dough, to the fur low on his belly.

Slowly, confusion morphed into understanding and then reluctant acceptance-not-his bloomed in his chest. “I suppose I was…much better at holding myself together, back then.” A faint, bitter laugh, before Blueberry Milk leaned into his dough, soft breath brushing against his neck while he scratched gently at fluffy blue fur. Contentment-acceptance-peace-affection, in the shadow of his heart. “Much better at ignoring the truth staring me in the face, I mean,” Blueberry Milk amended, ruefully. Black-stained claws tangled with his hand at the Fount’s abdomen as the other added, “until it became unavoidable.”

“You’ve always been lying to yourself, haven’t you.” He asked quietly, sorrowfully.

A soft, mournful sound. “Yes,” Blueberry Milk replied with surprising candor, one sharp claw running gently over his hand. “I think we all were, in some shape or form, from the very beginning. I couldn’t face my own imperfections, when I Knew how wrong I was; my own misery, when it seemed a natural extension of my own purpose. …Knowledge had no use for the loneliness that plagued me, even in a crowd of cookies. Knowledge is, by definition, solitary. Exists as perceived by a single mind. And yet, I couldn’t endure it.

“Just as – I sometimes wonder – was Sugar ever truly Happy? Flour, never wishing anything for herself. Spice, surrounded by Change that never actually changed. Salt who brought everyone together but was always forced to fight as cookies fractured themselves apart. Never allowed to lay his sword down.”

There was a dull sort of horror, growing with each word out of Blueberry Milk’s mouth. It felt as if – even beyond the machinations of Fate- Was this all truly… inevitable? He swallowed, and whispered, “…your Virtues sound more like…curses…than blessings.”

The tail wrapped around his arm began swaying up and down his limb slowly, as if in comfort, and the soft purring became more apparent as Blueberry Milk twisted a little, as if to let him feel that comforting vibration more easily. As if the Fount were not the one who had been suffering the most.

“It’s alright, Nilla,” Blueberry Milk said gently, even as something soft and sad and kind and not his, coiled in his heart. “We were baked to endure it.”

***

“To my…earlier point, before we were side tracked, I only meant to say that, to my knowledge, you and your siblings were all sealed far to the northwest of here. In the Faerie Kingdom. The Faeriewood. After learning of the magical properties of silver, I thought that had to do with how potent the concentration of silver was in that area. I didn’t realize it would have…started off here?” His voice trailed off uncertainly. Some part of that didn’t seem quite…right.

But then, his attention was diverted as understanding-not-his flickered over their bond. Blueberry Milk was nodding like that was all he needed to make the puzzle pieces fit together evenly. “Ah, I might have an explanation for that, then. As I said, leylines, to power the working. Silver, to teach the leylines the effect, to guide the magic. To ensure the working would be a ‘sealing.’ But, don’t forget another aspect of silver – its magical affinity. It is easily absorbed into magical circuitry.”

Blueberry Milk paused, wet his lips, then continued, more quietly, “It’s…already in the leylines, Pure Vanilla. I don’t…know how extensive the contamination is, so to speak, but given that I encountered it at the nexus…at worst case scenario the silver contamination would have spread across the entire continent of Baker-Yeast. Which means, if left unchecked, the bounds of the working would have been…all of Baker-Yeast. Because the leylines extend the breadth of the continent.  

“And that’s why I think Cremefeld was affected in the first place. It had to be Cremefeld. The silver needed to be absorbed into the leylines. Therefore, the cookies of the institute needed to find a way to alchemically transform silver that it might dissolve into the Skim Milk River, be taken downstream from the forks of Heidelbeere to the banks of Cremefeld, and from thence to diffuse into the soil and then into the very leylines of Earthbread.”

With a tiny, blooming, hesitantly hopeful little smile, Blueberry Milk looked up at him. “That’s why…I can cautiously admit we really have been changing things. That ritual I performed – to remove the silver from the soil around Cremefeld, while it won’t help remove whatever silver has already gotten into the leylines, it will at least help reduce any future damage. Maybe…maybe now, because you intervened, the working can’t extend to the entirety of Baker-Yeast. So, we…can’t be sealed…in the Faeriewood, as you described. And the working…must be confined to…here…in Gnosia. To Cremefeld – to that field.

“So you…so you see, Nilla. By being here. By staying by my side, making me want to- want to be- making me believe I can be- I, well, you’re changing things, after all. I would have never known…wouldn’t have…concerned myself, with Cremefeld, with the silver; never realized the importance, the implications. Never – never known – the danger – to myself, to my siblings. …I- I’m… Known, to the leylines. Because of Dark Moon Magic, Knowledge, it doesn’t matter, I’m still very well known to them. They could have…sealed me at any point, and I might have never even…been aware of the danger. But now – but now I am. And they can’t. Because you were here.”

It was relief. But it was more than that. It was hope; it was faith; it was tentative and wondering and felt like the first breath of spring upon frosted ground. The first green returning to fire-blasted trees. It was Blueberry Milk, smiling up at him, soft and gentle and a little crooked, with damp eyes (in his face, in his hair), corruption standing out in sharp relief upon his cheek, in the shadowed voids of his hair – they’d expanded, now, were more familiar – it was finding something broken, and realizing maybe it could be whole again, after all-

(It was realizing that maybe, just maybe, the world could be a little kinder, if only he showed it how.)

(He would not falter. He would wait, and he would hope. So long as he had hope, he could endure anything else. He loved Blueberry Milk far too much, to do anything less.)

Somehow, a kiss felt too shallow for the shade of quiet reverence, quiet hope, that filled him. So, he simply wrapped his arms around the cookie in his lap, tangled them together, leaned his head against starlight hair, and breathed.

Fur, coiling gently around his arm, delicate fluff sliding up and down his dough rhythmically. Blueberry Milk breathed with him.

“So…where do we go from here?” He asked, a tiny eternity later. “I’m sure they won’t just…stop, you know. Lord Assam. The Institute. How do we make them realize that a sealing is not the answer?”

There was a slight…pause. Then, hesitancy-uncertainty trickling across their bond. Blueberry Milk coughed, once. He frowned, feeling the beginnings of worry, before the other cookie nuzzled him, saying, “I don’t think we can stop them, Nilly. Not without…a lot of violence. And I’m, well, while I’m certainly powerful, it feels…a little like…a waste…to just…get them to…stop. Inefficient. Wouldn’t it be better to… control the research? Use it, and the desires of the Institute, and Lord Assam, to our advantage?”

For a moment, he was certain he’d misheard. There was no way Blueberry Milk was suggesting- “What.”

“I only mean-!” Blueberry Milk began, shifting and reaching for one of his hands, chaffing at tan palms reassuringly. “A sealing ritual is not a…terrible…idea. Well, I have no idea what Salt was thinking when he suggested silver – silver in itself is a terrible, terrible idea, if my experiences with it were anything to go by; but a sealing itself could be…useful…if directed productively. Sealing acts like…stasis. A way to contain the others, even if only briefly, if things get even worse, so I can dedicate myself to finding a way to…fix things.

“We’re all…balanced on a candy-floss string, Nilla. I’ve at least got you, to help ground me, center me. But the others don’t- the others don’t have that. And I’m not certain how to help them. Can’t, without first understanding what is…hurting them. And, even if, I sometimes think I have – an idea – I can’t focus on that and try and protect the little cookies from the fallout at the same time.”

Blueberry Milk looked up at him suddenly, cyan-and-cobalt eyes cautious and a little excited. “Actually, you know what, Nilly? I think you might be- I mean- you were able to help me- so maybe-“

But he was shaking his head, painfully, soberly. Because, “No. No, Bluebell. I was… You and I,” his hand drifted gently to his Soul Jam of its own accord, and for a moment he was – back there. Being unmade. Walking that same path. Falling to deceit. To despair. Forced to endure an agony that would break even the strongest of immortal souls. That had.

He shuddered softly, closing his eyes and shutting the memories away. Focused on the rumbling purr, the prick of claws, the soft fur under his fingertips. The scent of blueberries, in his nose. The faint tang of soured milk.  He breathed, deeply, and then whispered, “I could not do the same for the other Virtues, as I have for you. Theirs is not a path I have…walked. You and I… we were always destined to be tied together. …No one will understand you, better than I. And no one will understand me, better than you.” He gave a brittle laugh and then added, “I think it just comes with the territory of a Soul Jam, tied to the Light of Knowledge.”

Blueberry Milk looked at him solemnly, for a long moment. A flurry of emotion, passing between them. Agony-shame-self-loathing and yet still somehow strangely unrepentant; in the end, the Fount leaned against him, Algiz pressing into his Soul Jam, as he whispered, quietly, “forgive me.”

But, in the face of that familiar self-loathing, all he could feel was quiet, fond acceptance-affection-love-reverence. His hand came up to trace the delicate taper of one ear, card through shadowed and starlight strands, as he murmured, “there is nothing you need beg forgiveness for, beloved. I, I love Knowledge. I Know that now. And that means loving Knowledge in all its iterations; in the divinity, in the cookie, in Deceit, in Truth, in the fur and claws and fangs and lies you hide behind. I would not change you. Never. Rather – I would see you healed. Whole. See how you would cut through the truths and the lies, turn them into something beautiful; see what Knowledge holds.”

Tears. Dripping quietly against his Soul Jam, the beginnings of something heady and powerful, twining between them. This was not a true union of souls, not as how he and the cookie in his arms had briefly become one, with two Soul Jams of Deceit. That had been powerful, yes. Overwhelming. Like being lost and found and made and unmade all at once. This was…gentler. Something warm and bright and safe. Hope. Home. Truth, his-and-not-his. Truth, that yearned for Knowledge, that longed to be what it once was, and yet could never return to that again. Truth, that grew, that changed, that chose Compassion, for Knowledge, instead.

“Even when it hurts you?” Blueberry Milk’s voice was a broken whisper.

“Even when it hurts me.” He confirmed, softly, inexorably. “If…if I love a God, Bluebell, then you love a cookie. One who had ever sought the Truth, sought kindness; one who has fallen and failed more times than I can count, and ultimately has learned to seek compassion, to seek mercy. I will…I will always give you my compassion. My mercy. I will give you my hope, my faith, my love. But I have learned…compassion, mercy, these things…they are not always kind. And I am still striving to learn that… balance. Between kindness and compassion.”

He turned, reaching out to tilt Blueberry Milk’s face upwards, wiping the tears from the other’s cheeks, tracing along the mark of corruption coursing along Knowledge’s face. “I do not wish to be cruel,” he whispered softly, a little lost.

But Blueberry Milk just smiled at him, soft and sorrowful and a little too Knowing; fanged and full of love. Nuzzling against his palm, the Fount smeared jam and corruption alike across his dough. “Sometimes, compassion is cruel. Just as sometimes, knowledge is pain.”

He sighed, heavily, and carefully prodded around Blueberry Milk’s cyan eye, before weaving together a familiar healing array – Dark Moon Magic and White Magic, balanced, in perfect harmony. “Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel much better.”

Blueberry Milk flinched slightly, wincing in pain before settling down carefully. He frowned, as he realized that the corruption was…resisting his healing spell, more than it had previously. The flicker of playful-amused-melancholy in the shadow of his heart was a distraction, as was Blueberry Milk’s darkly amused, “…Knowledge is pain, Nilly.”

“You mean you’re a pain,” he mumbled, before asking, “Right – why did this open up again?” He then added dryly, as something cagey and skittish curled between them, “And don’t try and dance around the issue, Bluebell.”

A low growl, before Blueberry Milk said, “I suspect it has something to do with shapeshifting away the corruption, before. In Heidelbeere. It was never actually…gone, just…forced away.” A sigh. “Corruption is not so easily cleansed.”

He debated pinching the other’s cheek in retaliation at the growl, but shook his head saying, “Must you…shapeshift it away, again? …it feels as if the wound is…resisting my healing, a little more.”

He could feel the deadpan stare from the cookie in his arms. “Right. Of course. Go ahead and show every cookie in Heidelbeere and the Institute and Lord Assam that yes, they were right, I am corrupted, but no worries, I’ve not gone completely mad, and, by the way, I want to ‘help them’ make their sealing ritual-“

He did pinch Blueberry Milk’s cheek, this time. “I’ve not agreed to that. It’s a terrible idea. You know that, right?”

Cyan-and-cobalt eyes stared up at him, something sober, in the shadows of his heart. “Well, I’m afraid you have less than forty-eight hours to come up with a better idea, Nilla.” Blueberry Milk’s tone was serious. Matter-of-fact. It was enough to give him pause and grasp his vanilla beholder, that he might - see.

Blueberry Milk looked…weary. His eyes were serious, slit pupils almost luminous in that way that meant Knowledge was a little too close to the surface. The freshly healed icing around his cyan eye looked raw. Even the Eyes in his hair had opened, and were looking at him. Not flickering open and shut. Just…watching.

“What I fear, far more than a cookie who seeks to do me harm…is one who believes he is doing right.” Blueberry Milk paused a moment, and then said softer, somberly, “For better or worse, after that…display…at the Institute, I have proven Lord Assam right. I am dangerous. I can be dangerous. To other cookies. To the little cookies. Perhaps, this can all be resolved with my abdication. Once the immediate danger has passed. I can return all power to the cookies; remove myself entirely from their sight. No…beast…to fear; no Virtue to guide them.

“But, right now? To force Lord Assam to stop his crusade? To destroy all the Institute’s research, because of the possibility it could be used to seal me? That is no way to dissuade rebellion. Rather, it is a way to foment one.” The Fount smiled, soft and sad. “Do you truly think they would stop, Nilla? Because we asked? Because we show them I am a cookie, as much as they? A cookie, in possession of a God’s power? …I fear that would only make it worse.”

He took in a deep, shuddering breath, head leaning forwards to rest against his Fount’s. He…did not know if Blueberry Milk was…right. But the other cookie was certainly being…reasonable. If he could put aside the visceral fear that Blueberry Milk within even a twenty-league radius of a sealing ritual meant for him invoked…he could see the other cookie’s point. A cookie, convinced of his own righteousness, the necessity of his purpose – stopping that would be…difficult, if not impossible, over such a short span of time. Blanket denial would foster resentment, execution (he shuddered, hating that his time as a king made him even consider it) would form a martyr, and given how many cookies were already working on this research – it wouldn’t be so simple as just ‘cutting off the head of the jelly worm,’ or destroying the papers in their possession. Every researcher knew of the value of multiple copies-

His hands tightened around Blueberry Milk’s waist. “I just…I don’t want to see you hurt, Bluebell.” He swallowed, and said, more roughly, more quietly, “Seeing you sealed would…break me.” His reached out, tracing over freshly healed icing. “I cannot imagine it, knowing you now, as I do. It should never have happened, regardless. Even if there is utility, it is still… so cruel. No cookie deserves that.”

Cool lips, against his palm. “I will be careful, Nilla. …I am not asking, to be sealed.” Blueberry Milk added, as if attempting at levity.

He sighed, despite himself. It shouldn’t have been funny. Wasn’t funny, and yet, “None of that, you. …I don’t have it in me to appreciate gallows’ humor, right now.”

A soft, gentle purr, a cheek nuzzling into his own. “…but it made you relax. Just a little.”

He flicked the other’s ear lightly, before capturing familiar lips in a fond kiss. “Incorrigible.”

A delicate nip, against his lip, before Blueberry Milk was pushing him backwards, to recline against the sofa arm, before the other cookie made a nest of him. His hand found furry hips, before moving to scratch at the base of the other’s tail. Blueberry Milk’s words came out slowly, lethargically. “I rather think that’s you. Given how long it took you to tell me all this.”

He sighed, head tilting backwards to stare at the shadowed ceiling, even as he tugged on the Fount’s tail gently. “…how was I supposed to tell you? ‘I love you, and, by the way, you’re going to be sealed in the near-ish future? And I’m trying to stop it, but I’m also realizing I never understood anything at all, so I’m not certain how?’ Never mind the fact that we don’t know if the very act of me revealing this will just…destroy reality or something…”

A much more pointed nip, against his shoulder. “No. None of that. …one apocalypse at a time, if you please. …causality will right itself. It always does.”

“…thank you, Bluebell. That’s very reassuring.”

Shifting. Then, Blueberry Milk was rising, straddling his hips, claws caging him in against the sofa. He was even more serious than he had been, before. “Or we could run away. Abandon Gnosia, Cremefeld, Baker-Yeast. Hide away, in some forgotten corner of Earthbread, until the dust settles. Abandon all the little cookies, my siblings, all of it. We could do that, you know. …but you would never do that, would you, Pure Vanilla Cookie. Not you, who longs to create a world that embraces the happiness of all cookies.”

Acceptance. At least, to try. And come what may, I will not falter.

His hands moved to settle on a thin waist, even as Blueberry Milk’s tail coiled around his hip. Sitting up, he pressed their foreheads together, Algiz, touching upon the Star. “Alright. We’ll do it your way. I will not abandon the world. But you already knew that. And, Blueberry Milk Cookie, neither will I abandon you. Never.”

Lips, meeting his in a gentle kiss. A fond, crooked smile, “Oh dear heart, I never doubted that. Not even for a moment.”

Chapter Text

I just want to Stay (I just want to Keep this Dream in Me)

One day.

They had a little over twenty four hours, to formulate a workable plan.

Or perhaps, not a plan, so much as a series of rules. Guidelines.

“You’re not to step foot into any array, or within the boundary of any ritual.” He said, perhaps a bit abruptly, tapping Blueberry Milk’s chest for emphasis.

“…huh?” The other cookie didn’t quite sputter, but did look at him quizzically.

Pulling Blueberry Milk back down to rest in his arms, he tucked the other cookie into his side, hand carding through midnight-blue-silver-black strands. Narrowed eyes stared at the interplay of shadow and light above their heads.

“…I know you, Bluebell. You’ll want to keep me safe, which means putting yourself in the proverbial oven. But…that’s not going to work here. I won’t let it work, here. If we are to do this, together, you need to accept that I fear for your safety as much as you do mine. You can inspect the working. Make adjustments and suggestions and do what you need to ensure that the Beast Binding Ritual won’t ever work on you. But you are not to put yourself in danger. If the leylines already know you, and the silver is already in the leylines around Cremefeld, and we help them ‘complete’ the ritual, then the only way to protect you is to not let anyone activate the ritual.  I won’t give anyone even the slightest chance of it. You are not to go inside the working. That is my singular condition, Blueberry Milk Cookie.”

He could feel the beginnings indignant-objection coursing through their bond and said, “Yes, I understand this could put me in danger. But between the two of us, you are their focus, not I. Furthermore, it is a ‘Beast Binding Ritual.’ Not… an ‘any cookie binding ritual.’ And, we have time, right now, to assess and rewrite the entire thing, if needed. To ensure there’s an escape route. For you and me.”

Blueberry Milk stared at him a moment; expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he moved to disentangle himself, before standing. He looked almost…out of place, somehow. Sharp eyes, blank face, empty expression – the Fount of All-Knowledge – clad in Pure Vanilla’s borrowed undershirt, hanging loosely off one shoulder; long, midnight blue tail, the hint of one furry thigh – Blueberry Milk – on full display.

Or maybe this was how a God who was also a cookie should be.

Blueberry Milk reached out and helped him up, as well. The other cookie looked down at their joined hands a moment, before he said, quietly, “I will do as you ask. I’ll review the ritual, rework it – ensure that it is safe; but…to do it quickly, perfectly…I’ll need to bring Knowledge to bear. I…will need to nearly close our bond, and I honestly don’t think you should stay in the Spire.”

He opened his mouth, to object – he didn’t want to leave his Bluebell to face this alone – but Blueberry Milk just shook his head, claws squeezing his hands lightly. “No, Nilla. We don’t have time. One day, I want to be able to explore Knowledge with you, the Other Realm, our Eyes, all of it. But not today. The Petitioner’s Court is in barely more than twenty-four hours. And we need a ritual that will work for us, before then. What’s more, we do need to at least warn the villagers of Cremefeld of what’s been going on. …that we will probably be bringing the Institute into the vicinity.  …they deserve at least that much.”

There were the beginnings of anxiety-tension, coiling between them, as Blueberry Milk finished, quietly, “This is a performance, Nilla. That field of Cremefeld the setting; the ritual a most important prop; Lord Assam, Lord Criollo, the villagers of Cremefeld, us, actors upon the stage. We need to be ready.”

He looked down at their joined hands, blue-black-tan, fingers tightening a little. “Do you…really think, we’ll need to…go to Cremefeld? That field? Try out the ritual, once we show it to Lord Assam?”

Blueberry Milk squeezed back, before smiling weakly. “…that’s what I would do, if I were in Lord Assam’s position. I doubt he’ll regard anything we bring him kindly. And if we don’t invite him to test the ritual we remake – that doesn’t mean he won’t try and test…this one. On his own.”

The Fount waved the papers between them, adding, “This is…something akin to Dark Moon Magic. Not quite but…enough. I’m sure they studied the aftermath of my own experiments into its creation. Dark Moon Magic is…very, very volatile. And…you were wrong, before. I know you described this as…a Beast Binding Ritual. And maybe, to Lord Assam, the cookies of the Institute, it was. Is. That was all they intended. But this…this sealing ritual, this initial attempt at least, is far, far more than just that. …they might end up sealing half of Cremefeld with this. Any poor cookie who happened to wander into the working at the wrong moment. And that is assuming the ritual as written worked as intended. More likely, they’d simply… tear a tiny hole in the fabric of reality. …no cookie would be left.”

He could feel a headache forming. Eyes closing, pinching at his nose, he murmured, “And after everything that the Institute has already admitted to…I doubt they would even care. Not about collateral damage.”

“No,” Blueberry Milk replied somberly, something unreadable in his eyes. “I doubt they would.”

***

Blueberry Milk insisted on portaling him directly to Cremefeld, before leaving him with a small, faintly glowing gem, like spun sugarglass. A token, to inform him of when he might return to the Spire. Then he’d been left alone, a fond but slightly anxious smile and a swift kiss silencing him, before he’d been able to ask about the magics involved. Another curious invention of the Fount, it would seem. Perhaps one lost to history. But it did bear a passing resemblance to the glowing spheres used in the Academy to inform the students out in the fields, the laboratories, the libraries of when to return to the campus, upon curfew.

He tucked the small token away, before letting his beholder take in the village before him. Cremefeld was much the same, despite how everything had changed. It was jarring, in a way. Cookies bustling back and forth, conducting the business of their lives. They waved at him, as he passed. Friendly smiles and friendly faces. Asked after ‘Mr Blueberry’ with genuine warmth. It felt… foreign, after Heidelbeere. After Lord Assam’s twisted words, the Institute’s careless research.

Cremefeld was…warm. Kind. Open in a way that made it almost painful, to realize they might tarnish that peace. Bring even a single member of the Institute to their doorstep.

…Blueberry Milk was right, to want to warn them.

“Mr Vanilla!!!” A childish, familiar voice. Attention caught, he turned to find Edelweiss and Black Hyacinth hurrying towards him. Well, Edelweiss was staring after the running Black Hyacinth with an utterly deadpan expression; three baskets near bursting with food and home goods in her arms and a fourth dropped haphazardly near her feet. Black Hyacinth was waving rapidly, even as his head swiveled back and forth as if he was looking for-

“Ah, Bluebell’s not here, little one. Just me today.”

“…you cannot jump Mr Blueberry every time you see him. Please have some mercy upon the poor Fount.” Edelweiss didn’t even sound exhausted any more, just accepting, as if this had somehow become the natural course of her life.

Black Hyacinth looked up cheekily, wings fluttering, saying, “Even Grammy said it would help ‘build character!’” The little cookie made a dramatic motion with his hand, covering his mouth, adding, “Even Weiss thinks maybe it’ll help Mr Blueberry remember to eat more of his primary ingredients, if he has to carry me around! So, he’ll grow big and strong! …Bigger and stronger. We’ve got lots of blueberries and not just milk, this time! Oh, look, we even found some vanilla beans – now we can give you more than just cream, too-“

“Cynth!” The rich crimson of strawberry jam showed up quite clearly on Edelweiss’ otherwise pale dough. She looked halfway between ready to sink into the ground and strangle the boy.

Black Hyacinth giggled and added, unrepentantly, miming flipping the pages of a book, “Oh look, Mr Vanilla, I seem to have found the entry for ‘too easy’ in this dic-tion-ar-y. Oooh – it’s got a picture attached – huh, I seem to recognize-“

“Cynth!!!” Edelweiss roared, even as her black-haired brother giggled and danced away, before darting off.

And so, he was left with four overstuffed baskets at his feet and a fond smile on his lips.

“…need a hand,” came the familiar voice of Blackcurrant from behind him. He turned, or tried to, halted by the small cream sheep nosing among the downed goods. Then, there was another soft bleat from his other side; a quiet, fond ‘hush, you,’ from the cookie beside him before Blackcurrant had somehow managed to hold a lamb in one arm and two baskets in the other. “Don’t mind them. Weiss has been a bit down since Goose left. …none of us like an empty home, but Weiss especially, after…everything. Cynth’s a good kid. Always trying to cheer her up.”

He nodded, slowly. It was difficult to remember, sometimes, with how cheerful, how optimistic, these friendly villagers were. But there had been…suffering, here. Crumbling – at the hands of misfortune, or fate, or illness. This family… did not have a good track record of loved ones who left…returning. Carefully pushing another sheep away from the baskets and grabbing the other two, he scratched idly at coarse wool, asking, “do you know when Gooseberry’s to come back?”

Blackcurrant shrugged uncertainly, the motion barely visible at the edge of the visual field of his staff, replying, “Soon, hopefully. That was what his most recent letter implied, anyway. But travel’s never been particularly reliable; certainly not these days. We’re quite fortunate to have received even a few letters from him, let alone one that made it before he returned. …at least we know he still lives.”

There was something a little worn, in Blackcurrent’s voice. Downtrodden. Then, the other cookie said, trying at cheer, “But. You’ve returned to Cremefeld. And so soon! I knew you two could work miracles, but this is impressive, even for the both of you! Although I suppose – he is the Fount, and you’re the only cookie who can keep up with him – anyway, you’ve just won me quite a good bit of coin hehe – I had faith in you both-“

He had thought himself accustomed to quite pains. Like this. Faith, hope, things given to him so selflessly. Because he was ‘good.’ Because he was ‘kind.’ Because he tried. Things he could never repay. Never deserve.

I will not falter.

Blackcurrant’s voice trailed off. “Ah. I sense a catch.”

(It was always harder, somehow, when the other cookie was kind enough to allow their hope to dim, their faith to be tested, holding neither disappointment nor expectation. Just empathy. Acceptance.)

He nodded carefully. Spoke quietly. “I’d come to tell you all what we’ve learned so far. Bluebell wanted you all to know…and I…I have some things I think I wish to…add. It’ll be good to get an update on Gooseberry, as well. An information exchange, if you would?”

(He tried to smile, lips twitching upwards. Because nothing had happened yet. Because he needed to be strong. And yet it bloomed weakly, as if beset upon all sides by frost.)

A distraction. “Ah, but perhaps you could explain to me – what is a ‘Petitioner’s Court?’ Blueberry Milk mentioned it and I believe we’ll both be attending. And while I can hazard a guess according to the name, I forgot to ask Bluebell, so…”

The silence held a moment too long, followed by that prickling sensation of Blackcurrant just…looking at him. The lamb in the other cookie’s arms bleated once more. He had nearly paused to turn his vanilla beholder upon Blackcurrant before there was the sound of shuffling again, as Bluckcurrant walked onward, muttering half to himself, “Sometimes you ask the darnedest things.”

“You really do, you know!” Piped up a little voice from too close, just under his arm, at his other side. His lips curved into a sheepish smile as he turned to see Black Hyacinth and Edelweiss had returned. Both looked a little dusty, as if the scuffle had ended with them rolling in the dirt. Edelweiss wore a self-satisfied smile and, when, he turned to look at Black Hyacinth, his beholder took in the other cookie…pouting.

“Ah, I heard you coming, young master Hyacinth,” he hazarded a guess. With a tiny smile and a secretive expression, he added, “it is much harder to sneak up on me than it is my Bluebell.”

Hands, tugging one of the baskets in his arms from his grasp, which Edelweiss then gave to Black Hyacinth, before she took one from Blackcurrant for herself. It was as they all began walking down the dirt-lined path towards the Pome family home that Edelweiss started, “the Petitioner’s Court isn’t something we know too much about – Auntie might know better. But, from what Pappy used to tell me, it is…a way to get…help? …make one’s grievances heard. By the Fount. But also, really, by the Court, and just…everyone else.”

“…grievances?” He asked softly, the beginnings of a frown making its way onto his face. And Bluebell’s…planning on holding one? Now? When if seems as if every cookie is…against him?

“Ah.” Blackcurrent said, softly. It was almost a surprise, when the other reached out to pat his arm, as if to provide comfort. “Goose would have known more – he used to serve- well. It’s not…dangerous. They’re usually held monthly, and the Fount might attend at least quarterly. What’s more, it doesn’t have to be… a grievance against the Court, or… anyone else. It could just be…two farmers, fighting over a fence, or a tree. A boundary. Two cookies who wish to enter into an agreement unable to come to terms.”

Blackcurrant’s voice was thoughtful, as he added, “I know we all tend to think of Mr Blueberry as a teacher, first and foremost. That is… his primary role, as the Fount of Knowledge. There are definitely cookies who attend the Petitioner’s Court with that in mind; students or apprentices of the Institute, for example, looking for advice or hints on their research. They come to ask a Question. But…he’s also – the Judge. Arbiter. A cookie…can always come to the Petitioner’s Court seeking the Fount’s counsel, or with a dispute the Fount might solve. Even if no one is left…particularly happy, at least the issue is resolved.”

“No one left particularly happy…?” He parroted, confused and, in truth, a little disturbed, by the way Blackcurrant had said that. So frankly.

There was the sound of feet, falling out of alignment, as Blackcurrant stumbled, quickly adding, “Ah! I didn’t mean – that wasn’t to say-“ He sighed heavily. “Goose would say that. He… he doesn’t really like talking about his time …before. But he used to work in the service of-“ Blackcurrant paused, looking around, towards Black Hyacinth and Edelweiss, both of whom were peering at him with curious (and the latter with a slightly troubled) expressions. The dark-haired shepherd twitched. “Let’s just say…a very…opinionated noble. Certain of his place and the natural course of the world, as it were.”

The words were spoken with such significance that Blackcurrant clearly thought he’d be able to appreciate the import from his speech alone-

A flash of memory. Of insight.

(A cookie. Motivated by a vision of the world – a passion so strong – he near burned with it. A cookie who did not care for the cost wrought in shaping the future as he saw fit. Gooseberry’s sharp voice, harsh and strangely ragged, ‘not the type t’ let anythin’ pass ‘im by’ – as if he knew the cookie in question-)

He stumbled.

Lord Assam.

He turned to stare incredulously at Blackcurrant, vanilla beholder searching for – something. A tell. A twitch of the lips. As if this might be a trick-

Blackcurrant’s expression was even, honest. Forthright. Even as a quiet anxiety flickered in his eyes.

The hesitant shuffling of Edelweiss and Black Hyacinth, in the background, unheeded.

Blackcurrant nodded, slowly, once. As if in acquiescence.  

His eyes slid shut. “Is…Lady Smith, available as well, by chance? I have…much to inform you of.”

***

It was…always difficult, to know where to start. To reveal a potentially dangerous truth. And yet, he had known (had always known): regardless of whether or not he revealed the ugly truth in its entirety, the danger remained.

He tried to be honest. To accept all those wretched, unpalatable truths. And… he could accept them. But it was always harder to…speak them out loud. Because Truth always came with consequence. But, if he had learned anything – from White Lily, from Dark Enchantress Cookie, from Shadow Milk, from Blueberry Milk – it was that leaving truths unspoken also came with consequence.

(He could not keep believing he could bear the cost alone, and then seek forgiveness, once all was said and done.

He did not bear the cost alone. The greater portion? It was White Lily’s. Blueberry Milk’s. Dark Enchantress Cookie. Shadow Milk.)

(And yet, the question remained. Where was that line – between kindness and compassion? If compassion could be cruel, if the Truth could hurt – would speaking it be like lancing a wound? Or would it simply cause one?

He did not want to be needlessly cruel.)

Fingers tightening around the cup of chamomile-lavender tea he’d been given, he allowed himself to inhale the warm vapor. Let the scent calm him, the heat sooth him. It wasn’t as calming as his Bluebell’s scent, but it was…consistency. Something that stayed the same, in this rapidly changing world.

The cookies gathered around him, they were another point of familiarity. Lady Smith, gnarled hands holding her own tea cup calmly, even as she watched him quietly. Edelweiss, Black Hyacinth and Caramel Apple all tucked together in a pile, shifting restlessly in anxiety even as they tried at stillness. Blackcurrant, who’d left the cream sheep outside in a little pen off the house but taken the lamb inside, to feed her milk from a bottle. The lamb was now curled up at the shepherd’s foot, as Blackcurrant busied himself with woodcarving.

(The home felt terribly empty, all the same. A gaping wound where two cookies should be. Little Caramel Apple had visibly deflated, when only they had entered.)

Lady Smith shuffled a sheaf of papers at her elbow, tapping once upon the sturdy walnut of the table below. “You will be informing our Fount of this information, I presume?” The elderly faerie’s tone was firm. Brooked no argument.

He looked upwards, not quite ready to start but aware he was stalling. “Ah- y-yes. Yes, of course.” With a quiet breath to center himself, he let his eyes fall open. He would not turn away from Truth. Not now. Never again. “I suppose, I’ll start, then.”

There was quiet shuffling from the cookies beside him. The gentle snuffling of a sleeping lamb. The soft sound of carving knife upon wood.

“As you know, Bluebell and I went to Heidelbeere to follow up the lead regarding the Institute and determine both the source of the silver, as well as its purpose. It – the Institute, Lord Assam-“ His lips curled almost distastefully at the word, and he took a moment to quell his rising emotions.  …I miss Bluebell. I miss his support. Even if it is an anxious calm. “Well, suffice to say the Institute is researching silver in an attempt at…creating a specific…ritual.”

He swallowed, eyes falling closed before flaring open. His beholder focused upon the cookies around him. Commit. “Lord Assam and the Institute are utilizing silver in a ritual designed to seal away a cookie. Bind a cookie. It is a direct threat against Blueberry Milk.

“Bluebell thinks that the silver in the milk table is essentially just…collateral damage. Cremefeld is collateral damage. Anything to get the silver into the leylines, and thus the Nexus, that the ritual might be performed. Cremefeld was simply near enough to the Nexus that it was …caught in the crossfire.”

Blackcurrant’s knife had stopped its rhythmic movements, as his hand tightened around the handle. “…collateral damage…?”

Edelweiss looked sick, whispering, “…a seal?” He hands wrapped around Black Hyacinth and Caramel Apple, pulling them closer. The boy in question looked…fearful. Head swiveling between Edelweiss and Blackcurrant and Lady Smith and himself, as if he couldn’t quite make sense of what he was hearing, but knew it to be horrific.

“Absolutely not.” Lady Smith’s voice was firm, almost aghast. “Are they mad?”

“You know what Goose always says – ‘Lord Assam has his ‘vision’ of the world, and the Fount isn’t in it.’“ Blackcurrant started, shaken.

“That is not the point-“ Lady Smith retorted harshly, hand crumpling over her papers, before she moved to clutch at her teacup instead. “You cannot just…seal…something as fundamentally important as Knowledge, as Change, Volition, Happiness, Solidarity without consequence. It doesn’t work like that. Criollo should know better-“

It was not quite an argument, but he needed this conversation kept on track- “Nobody will be sealed. We know about the ritual, the purpose. Bluebell has all the available documentation, and he’s working on an updated version of the ritual right now, in order to hopefully control the inevitable chaos that will arise from this. We… we are supposed to go to the Petitioner’s Court tomorrow. Blueberry Milk offered to ‘hear their case.’”

“What? Why?” Blackcurrant asked, confused. “Didn’t you say he’s already decided to…give this thing a try?”

Edelweiss frowned, murmuring half to herself, “this still sounds like a terrible idea…”

“It’s…it’s gotta be a…trick, right? Right?” Black Hyacinth piped up uncertainly.

“I…I don’t quite know why he wanted to hold the Petitioner’s Court, actually. …I forgot to ask. …a lot…happened.” He smiled weakly, a little embarrassed. “Amongst everything else it just…slipped my mind.”

Sobering, he added, “but that brings me to…the crux of my point. And,” he looked around at all the gathered cookies, somberly. Quietly. He watched as they straightened, attention caught. “I will... do all I can. To protect him. To fight for him. To keep him safe. But – please. No matter what happens. Please – remember Blueberry Milk Cookie. Support him. And…remain at his side.”

He swallowed roughly, at the frozen silence, that followed in his wake. He knew – he knew – what this sounded like- “This is not- this is not- farewell. I will not abandon him. You. He is mine. Mine to cherish, mine to hold. Mine to love. I will never forsake him. But he- he is not mine alone. He is yours, right? Your Fount? Your Mr Blueberry? Blue Mr Magic-Tail Cookie? And he- he needs you as much as he needs me. He was- so alone- when I first met him.” His hands were shaking, and he clasped them together. Eyes falling shut he bowed, a plea, a desperate cry. “Please, do not leave him alone.”

His voice hung, in the silence. Tears- why was he crying? He was so afraid- tiny hands. A crooked, toothy smile. Dark eyes, flecked with lilac. Black Hyacinth, holding his hands, far too young to be so wise- “We won’t, Mr Vanilla. …we love him too, you know. We love him too.”

Another hand, smaller yet. Wide, guileless red eyes, patting his knee heavily with too large motions. “Uh-huh! Love. Love! No sad!” Caramel Apple, grinning up at him.

He shuddered. Tears, dripping onto fluffy heads of black and white, as he gathered these kind, kind cookies, into his arms. “I’m sorry,” he whispered brokenly, to Black Hyacinth, to Caramel Apple, to Black Sapphire, to Candy Apple; not sure why. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Another hand, patting awkwardly at his back, the sound of footsteps. More smiling faces. Weakly smiling, yes, but true. “We’ll keep an eye on him,” Edelweiss said.

“Don’t worry,” Blackcurrant added. “We’ll keep an eye on both of you.”

Lady Smith snorted, as if the entire notion of them abandoning the Fount was absurd. “Of course, we will. You won’t get away from us that easily. Neither one of you.” She grinned, briefly, an expression that had her looking decades younger. “I’m afraid it’s much too late, for that. You’re family, now. The both of you.”

He laughed softly, wetly, and accepted the cloth Edelweiss passed him, dabbing at his eyes and saying, “Forgive me. I’m being…foolish.”

“There’s no harm in that,” Blackcurrant said sagely, retreating back to his chair. “…Goose asked us the same thing, you know. Before he left.”

“Really?” He asked, taking a calming sip of lukewarm tea, and then nodding in thanks when Edelweiss refilled his cup.

“Quite.” Lady Smith said. “That boy’s a little rough around the edges, but his heart’s in the right place.” With a tiny smirk, she added, “difficult to get to know, but worth it, once one does.”

Edelweiss giggled, looking between Blackcurrant and himself, before saying, “Sounds like someone else we know.”

And Blackcurrant was sputtering, while he didn’t even begin to know how to unpack that, although from the way Black Hyacinth’s eyes started to sparkle, he sensed that there might be a juicy story there-

“Ahem. On that note, perhaps we should move on to Gooseberry’s letter.” Lady Smith cut the budding diversion off quite nicely.

Nodding slowly, hands curling around his teacup, he focused upon Lady Smith, saying, “Yes – you mentioned he was headed north? To the Faeriewood?”

Lady Smith’s hand went to the half-crumpled letter at her side. She smoothed the pages out idly, nodding.  “Yes, he went to the Faeriewood to…see what he could learn. He…had sent a few short missives. But mostly just…this.”

She looked down at the papers in her hand, before pushing them over towards him. He blinked, surprised, before smiling softly. “Thank you,” he murmured, accepting the letter, and the trust, for what it was.

‘Hail, my Lady; my friends. My family. (Scratched out. But not illegible.)

I hope you fare well.

My Lady, I wish you good health, and better fortune with the fields, now that the worst of the poisons are behind us. Barley Cookie knows well how to conduct his work, so please rest easy on that account.

Currant, Weiss, you’ve best not forgotten our promise. Especially that pair of cookies – they balance each other out, but for all their brilliance, their stupidity seems to multiply in each other’s presence.

(He flushed, and coughed.)

Cynth, look after them. All of them. And please keep Appy out of the syrups, this time. We all know it was you.

There is so much to say of this place, I hardly know where to begin. Perhaps…the woods are familiar. Ancient trees, grown tall and grand, surrounded by the mountains and the rapids of the First Silver River. The predominant difference is that some of the trees – much of the flora and fauna, in fact – has a strange…familiar tinge, to it. At first, I simply thought it a trick of the light. Iridescence. But there is no mistaking that particular…color. It occurs with more frequency, so I have been told, the farther north one goes. Towards the greatest of the peaks in the Faeriewood; the great Silver Mountain.

…the cookies here do not speak on silver, nor do they seem overly concerned with its effects. When I sought out one of the lords of this land – they call themselves ‘Knights’, and the first amongst them is the ‘Guardian’ – they did not seem overly bothered by my concerns. Silver, here, is considered a ‘blessing,’ bestowed upon the Faeries, the land, by the Divines. I have learned that they have long worked with the Protector of Solidarity in the manipulation of this…’ore.’ The mystical properties of silver are apparently a closely guarded secret, amongst the upper echelons of Faerie Society, but I am assured that it has played a premier role in the safekeeping of this world from the beings of darkness, and all else that seek to do it ill.

The cookies therefore appear to regard silver most highly. In fact, they do not appear to be afflicted by the same all-pervasive weakness and illness that we encountered. Rather, their young seem to be rather sickly, until they grow to tolerate their surroundings. There is also a closely guarded, but widely known and respected secret: that the oldest amongst them – but most especially the Knights – ultimately give themselves over to ‘the Silver,’ at the end of their lives. It is considered… the highest honor.

…if I saw the faeries alone, I might be disinclined to think overmuch on silver. But there are many other cookies here, now. Of other nations, other tribes. And they… fare less well. Especially the oldest and youngest amongst them. The Fair Folk call it Silver-Sickness. A ‘weighing’ is how they explain it. Silver, as a blessing of the Divines, weighs a cookie’s dough – their sins. Those deemed pure, deemed spotless, untainted by darkness, find it in themselves to live. To grow beyond their trials. Those who succumb…they have at least returned to the Almighty Creators’ embrace.

In an odd twist of fate, I have seen a few…familiar faces, here. It is, in retrospect, to be expected. House Gentian has well known ties to the Faeriewood; but somehow, I was not expecting the sheer number. There has been a small but steady trickle of cookies bearing the insignia of the Institute, coming and going between the Keep, the sacred Silvergrove, and presumably Heidelbeere. They are laden with books and speak most often with the Knights. It would seem that there is much trade – of material, of information, of ideas – between the Institute and the Fair Folk. I have even seen, once, cookies transporting a few small cloth bundles, which, given our own experiences, I can only surmise was silver, although that is but speculation. 

I would be remiss, if I did not speak upon the Guardian of this land. As was previously said, he is the leader of the Knights, those cookies who concern themselves with the protection of the Faeriewood. They say he was once a trusted Knight-Commander among the Lord Protector’s own retinue. A great and revered cookie who stood at a God’s side. They call him ‘the Elder Faerie’ or simply Elder Faerie, and all regard him highly – for his kindness and wisdom and generosity. It was he who opened his borders to the destitute and dispossessed, and he, or so I am told, who suggested limiting contact between the cookies of other lands and the worst of the Silverglow of the Faeriewood. I must confess; however, I have seen him only once, and due to little more than happenstance. He spends much time of late, in the Silvergrove. I have heard whispers of a beautiful sapling, there – something truly holy. They say it was brought by the Lord Protector himself, the last time he visited, some years ago, now.

I’ve made many a new acquaintance here, as well. Heard many stories similar to our own. Cookies, whose lives were disrupted by suffering; brought upon them by hands that should have meant them well.

There are cookies from all over Baker-Yeast, here. There are a surprising number from the Spicelands, despite the distance. They tell a great many tales – but all speak of destruction, of death. The great merchant cities – the hidden oases of the desert caravans, all gone. Kheer, destroyed, in a single night. Roving bands of cookies, little more than bandits, stealing and crumbling and reveling in the wanton chaos. And, at the center, still, somehow, full of…laughter, the Herald of Change. Or the Great Destroyer, now. In the thick of the fight, reigning down indiscriminate destruction, wreathed in flame, eyes aglow with unholy light. …they speak of horns, too, by-the-by. And…cloven hooves? That is another common thread, I am finding. Our Gods, not quite what they seemed. I am…uncertain as to the specific meaning, in this case, but they whisper mournfully of ‘Aurochs’ in passing. Perhaps you could ask our learned friend?

There are far fewer cookies from the wetlands and marshes of the Sugarlands, but they all speak of escaping a terrible trap, made all the worse for the way it ensnares you – with comfort, with delight, with safety, with peace. A paradise that is yet a prison, where a weary soul might rest and minds slow as every whim is catered to and passion and vivacity suffocated under complacency and sloth. The once Bringer of Happiness now a being of frenetic temper, vacillating between gentle sweetness and a frightful terror that often sparks violence. They report on a cookie with talons that claw as much as hold; molting feathers – especially of a lower set of wings; bright plumage gone dull. And, if they should find it in themselves to leave, they describe overgrown jungles and foul, vicious beasts that chase them, as if ever guided to them by some unseen, malevolent force.

The least among the cookies I have met come from the peaks and deltas of the Wu Gu peninsula. These cookies are often…ill. Few reach the Faeriewood, fewer still pass the inspection of the Knights, and those that do often succumb to the ‘weighing of dough’ in their first few weeks here. Coughing becoming frailty becoming a blanching of the dough. Solemn, listless, exhausted; they speak of the gates of the Ivory Pagoda, barred shut due to the horrific violence that once shook the peaks of the Karst; that painted ivory halls in jam, when cookies still demanded entrance. Now, only quiet, and a fine layer of crumbs. None might enter, regardless of whether they were wish-seekers or simply cookies looking to Volition for guidance. The Saintess herself has retreated into seclusion, and now, only the guardian Haetae a permitted into her presence. The palace is little more than a hazy dream, haunted by a cookie with piercing eightfold-eyes that see too much; trailed by cobwebs and spider-silk and bearing poisonous fangs.

Most curious of all are those that come from the Flatlands. They come in great numbers, those that escaped the initial destruction. They wear silence like a shroud. When they can be enticed to speak, they tell tale of a land gone barren and silent. Cookies forsaken, by both the sword that once protected them and the land that once nurtured them. Truly, these cookies are a curious lot. They mingle amongst the faeries the most, and there are a scant few who have managed to push aside the weakness of the ‘weighing of dough.’ They commune with the cookies of the Institute who linger here, and some even seek to offer support and aid to the Knights of this land. They all…exude peace, in a way I have never before seen. …as best I can tell, they appear to have found comfort in doctrine that speaks of the gentle embrace of the Witches above. They…I do not know how to describe these cookies. Only that there is something that…unnerves me. Ha. I was told by one of them the other day that it was simply because I had not yet known the light of the Almighty Maker.

There is…so much more, I could say. For even here, perhaps especially here, there are angry, fearful voices. All are cookies who have suffered at the hands of the divine. There is much… indistinct rumbling, and some whispered discussions of intrigue. They say that a contingent of faeries – those with ties to house Gentian, are to travel soon to Heidelbeere, to enter in upon further discussions with the Institute, or perhaps simply the Court. I have offered myself as a guide, for they will be accompanied by some of these Knights, perhas even their Guardian, and would not need my protection.

I am well. Our previous encounters with silver have left me with some resistance to the weakness that plagues those who first happen upon it, here. But I find myself…weary. Being here. This is, I think, a lonely place.

It is strange. I will never thank... that cookie. What he did – to me, to those of us who questioned him, who could not abide his hypocrisy – it is unforgivable. And yet, I find myself able to say all these things in words, with a felicity that I would never manage to voice aloud. …is that his fault, or my fault, I wonder?

I miss you.

I love you.

I will see you again soon.

With all my heart,

Gooseberry’

Chapter Text

Between Fight and Flight is the Blind Man’s Sight (and the Choice that’s Right)

Perhaps he was being sentimental.

But, after everything that had happened, everything he had seen, had heard – the Beast Binding Ritual; ‘you bear Truth, dear heart’; milkcrowns; acceptance, that he hoped was not a more palatable hopelessness; ‘no one left happy’, at the Petitioner’s Court, (because Blueberry Milk could no longer bring himself to care? About solutions that were, if possible, satisfying?); the Faeriewood; a sapling? –

-‘Shadow Milk’ never once passing his lips-

(He wanted to be kind.)

He found himself wishing for – something – a keepsake – a token. A reminder. For him. For Blueberry Milk. That there was still hope – for his Bluebell, for the future; that his love was warm, and alive, and inextinguishable. That so long there was love he could endure all else. That he must endure all else. He would not falter.

The soulbond was a lovely, wondrous thing. It was having a tiny portion of peace, of comfort, of safety, of home (for home was a cookie – a little broken, a little sad, tainted by the darkness that clung to him, changed by it, a mirror fractured, but not yet distorted; familiar. And yet, a cookie who still knew joy, knew peace, could still offer kindness, and was, slowly, healing – for he had seen it, felt it, Blueberry Milk was healing), tucked away in the shadows of his heart. It was profoundly comforting, to have the Fount’s affection, his love, his care, ever secreted away within his soul. To know someone, so intimately, that secrets were simply words unspoken, rather than unknown.

Comforting, yes. But also – dangerous. Horror-anguish-righteous-fury-despair-self-loathing-fear like a riptide, ricocheting back and forth between them, until there was no control, no careful consideration, no deliberation; just emotion, and action (and consequence) – and now they were left with the hand they had been dealt – using the ritual – it still made something inside him curdle with fear-

Yet, he had accepted this path. Could think of no other way to cut this Gordian knot.

(And now, he could not even feel Blueberry Milk’s quiet resolution. That certainty he feared might be more akin to resignation, even as he hoped it, too, stemmed from acceptance. With the soulbond nearly closed between them – stretched fine, something golden and glowing, sunlight becoming dim – eclipsed – he found himself lost. Adrift.

It felt like a wound. The phantom pain of a cookie who had lost a limb.)

It made him yearn. For something more. Something else. Something tangible, real. Something he could touch. To remind him – he was not alone.

His beholder’s gaze darted to the side. Blackcurrant, accompanying him, walking in companionable silence, as he made his return to the Spire. They were…similar, in a way. Two souls: sturdy, constant, consistent; the stable foundation, the comfortable support. Earthbread, smiling up at, adoring, making itself a home, a safe haven, a harbor for the sky and stars above.

(Open arms. Open heart. Ever waiting, ever true, for love to return.)

“You…ah- do you do woodcarving often?” He asked, a little helplessly. Blackcurrant looked at him, a touch confused, eyebrow raised. He hastened to add, “That little sheep you carved? It was quite good!”

The other just tilted his head, an amused smile playing about his lips. “I do, actually. Something to keep the hands busy when watching the sheep. We don’t have many cream-wolves or wild cake-hounds in these parts; less now, since Goose rallied something of a militia, the last time a wolf was stalking the flock. So, sometimes I can get by with woodcarving. …why do you ask?”

He sighed, a wry smile playing about his lips even as his hand came to rest gently against his Soul Jam.

“I was…thinking. It might be nice? To have…something to hold on to. To remind me of Bluebell. A token, if you will. A locket? A pendant? Something like that.”

It was cheesy, and frankly a bit silly, but- “Ah,” Blackcurrant cut off his thoughts abruptly. The other cookie was smiling, something nostalgic in his eyes. “Mhmm. I understand.”

There was something about that expression, caught in his beholder’s gaze that made him say, “I suppose you do.” More easily, he added, “In truth, I’d like to carve it myself. But I do not have any real skill in woodworking, and…I’d rather have it sooner than later. What’s more, I don’t mind…if it were you. And I know Blueberry Milk wouldn’t mind either. You, Edelweiss, Gooseberry, Black Hyacinth, Lady Smith, little Caramel Apple – you’ve all become treasured friends to us both, you know. Your friendship, your kindness, your welcome and acceptance – it has been a gift we will never forget and one we could never repay.”

The feel of eyes, upon him. A frown, tugging at Blackcurrant’s lips, at the edge of his vision.

A hand, at his arm, tugging him to a stop.

Blackcurrant’s voice was cautious, concerned. “…why do you keep sounding like you’re saying goodbye?”

He sighed, eyes falling open, blurry gaze trailing to the sky above. Blue. Just…blue. Like his eye. (It wasn’t a blue he favored. Not anymore. Not when he knew of blues so, so much more beautiful than this.)

“I…may just be being…sentimental,” he started, quietly. His hand rubbed over his chest, his Soul Jam, again, before he added, even more softly, “Heidelbeere – the Beast Binding Ritual – it shook me. I have tried- so hard- I have seen him- he has changed- he is – he is – so much more than I have ever known- …I do not want to forget. Not him. Not this. Halcyon days.”

He looked down a moment, at the faintly glowing bauble that Blueberry Milk had given him. Something simple, and inherently practical, the glow a signal that he could return home, to the Spire. That Blueberry Milk had finished his work. That the Beast Binding Ritual was complete.

A symbol, to lead me home.

“He is- the star that guides me home. He is home. No matter where he is, where I am, my thoughts are ever with him- I will always return to him-“

He sighed softly, peering down at the faintly glowing light in his hand. It almost seemed to grow brighter, with every word that tumbled from his lips, with every thought of Blueberry Milk, in his head.

“…I just want him to know that.” He laughed, a little ruefully. “And I wish…for a compass, of sorts. Something that would never lead me astray.” His hand came to rub at his chest, again. “The compass I thought I had? …I have had a few, over the years. And they’ve all…not quite lead me astray, but not quite been the guiding light I had hoped for, either.”

(Shadow Milk, masquerading as the Light of Truth. The soulbond, that sometimes overwhelmed him, and not quite as unbreakable as he might have hoped. Even the Light of Truth, that wanted him to face the Truth, accept it, embrace it, but did not show him what to do with the Truth.)

(Compassion, something he had chosen for Shadow Milk Blueberry Milk, for Knowledge, for himself.)

“A compass, of a sort,” he murmured at last. “Ever faithful. Ever True. One I can trust, because it was made by my own hand.”

Blackcurrant was staring at him. Not unreadably, but with an open, nonjudgmental gaze. As if he were simply being…seen.

“You love him.” The other cookie said, with certainty.

“Yes,” he replied, easily. “I will always love him. Love the parts of him that he loathes, the parts he cherishes, the parts I do not understand, cannot fathom, the parts that are better known to me than myself. He is, ah, ‘animae dimidium meae.’ ‘Half of my soul,’ or so I have learned. I rather like it. It is…True, for us, in a way that goes beyond simple poetry.” He smiled, softly. “And we both Know that.”

Blackcurrant looked curious, bemused, but perhaps even just a touch Knowing. The other cookie turned to start walking forward, again. “Did you have a particular shape in mind? Or a time frame? And, if you did not mind, Weiss might be able to craft a necklace, for a pendant, and perhaps Cynth and Appy might help with colors, if you give us some guidelines? Of course, we would provide the material – I’m sure Lady Smith would be absolutely tickled. Goose would be able to do some of the more detailed carving once he returns- hopefully he’s on time for once-“

He had to stop the other, feeling both overwhelmed and strangely faint, all at once. “You- you would- I mean, you don’t have to go to such trouble- and- I’m not certain how I could repay-“

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Blackcurrant cut him off soundly, slapping his shoulder, hard. “We’re all friends here, right? And this is a memory-“ he jolted, at Blackcurrant’s words, stilling again, vanilla beholder and eyes both trained on the other cookie. Blackcurrant’s voice softened, and he nodded, smiling, even as he continued. “a memory – of you, of Mr Blueberry, of us, your time here, a promise. You might be the one in love with him. It might be your vow, your lodestone, your guide; but, in a way, if we are given the honor of helping you make it- it is our promise as much as it is yours. A little bit of us, for you to give to him, for you to carry yourself, no matter what the future holds.”

His hands came to rub at his eyes, of their own accord. He laughed, a little wetly. “Ah, you really are quite wise, aren’t you. Of course, we take our past with us, wherever we go.”

“Yes,” Blackcurrant said, before his smile turned a little wistful. He pressed his hand, over his heart, saying, “I can move forward, endure separation, miss Goose and still be okay because I carry my family, my loved ones. Here. In my heart. I am not alone. I will never be alone, not truly, so long as I keep them safe. They are well, and yet I carry their ghosts with me. And even if- even if something- terrible were to happen- I would be damaged. I would break. I would not be as I was. But, I would carry their ghosts with me, all the same.”

Blackcurrant looked at him, earnest and friendly, and said, “That is my hope for you, as well. No matter the battles before you, the suffering ahead, I would hope that you could find it in yourself to carry on, and carry your ghosts with you. And if I, we, might all one day be cherished ghosts of yours, then I would honor that.” The other cookie gave a little, self-conscious laugh, scratching at his cheek. “You and Mr Blueberry are already some of our ghosts, after all.”

Then, with a sudden clap of his hands together and a crooked grin, Blackcurrant added, “Now! Let’s talk shop! Designs, ideas, material, colors – tell me everything you can possibly think of – and, hmm, you know, I think, if you’re both going to Heidelbeere tomorrow, and wouldn’t mind the company, we’ll join you? At least Weiss and I, at any rate, provide you with a mock-up of the pendant, or whatever you want, get material, all of it!” He grinned, and added, with a twinkle in his eye, “and hopefully Goose will be there, and then we can all go unwind at the Midnight Oil – ah, a pub- Goose introduced me; and honestly, from what I’ve heard about the Petitioner’s Court, you’ll both probably need it- …hopefully Goose will be able to stay in Heidelbeere for a bit without any problems-“ The dark-haired shepherd devolved into unintelligible muttering.

Amused and slightly concerned all at once, he asked, “Ah, will Gooseberry be…okay?”

Blackcurrant waved a hand easily. “Yeah. Probably. So long as Lord-“ the other cookie halted, looked around and lowered his voice, saying, with a conspiratorial smile, “Lord Arse-hole-“ he choked on a laugh, “doesn’t recognize him, we should be fine.” Grinning at him, Blackcurrant said, “now – details, please. Details. What exactly, did you have in mind?”

***

Blueberry Milk fell on him the moment he returned.

More literally than figuratively, if only because the cookie had appeared in a twist of reality above their combined heads, and he’d only had a moment to hold out his arms before the other cookie had collapsed into them. He’d staggered, not expecting to have to suddenly support another cookie’s weight; even if it was one as light as Blueberry Milk.

Blackcurrant had turned to the side, desperately trying to muffle a laugh as the Fount had attempted to burrow into the folds of his robes, nose pressing into the hollow of his throat and tail winding its way firmly around his middle. The other cookie really was some sort of ridiculous cross between snake and cat – all liquid movement and plastering himself into his arms.

A small stack of papers fell out of another rift onto his head.

“…tired,” he heard, even as Blackcurrant winked and waved at him, before departing.

“Haha, yes, yes you are, sweetheart,” he said, unable to help the laughter in his voice. It was easy, for him to gather the papers sitting in a cloud of cobalt magic with one hand, and scratch gently behind one pointed ear with the other. He hummed softly, feeling warm and at peace, as something lonely-homesick-affectionate-adoring eased into the shadow of his heart; as purring soothed at the ragged edges of his dough. He hadn’t realized how tense he’d been, with the soulbond nearly closed, until the tension eased off his shoulders.

Relief making him weak, he moved hurriedly through the hallways, heading towards safe harbor, even as something soft and reverent had him pressing his lips to his Fount’s temple.

There was a moment, where the purring got markedly louder, before Blueberry Milk shifted a little, lips grazing the column of his throat. “You sure took your sweet time, returning to me.” There were the faintest hints of a pout, across their bond.

“Yes. I have much to tell you, and I’ve an idea that…I hope you’ll like, as much as I do. But first,” he said, as the Fount muffled a yawn against his neck, “rest.” His fingers brushed gently against the smudges of shadow he could barely make out, under the other’s cobalt eye, the faint silvery glow from the Fount’s pupil making the darkness even deeper. “I’ll be here, when you awake.”

“I don’t need sleep,” Blueberry Milk said, looking a little embarrassed despite making no move to leave their bed. Instead the other simply curled into his side, half over him, when he lay down to join the other cookie.

His hand moving under the dark robes, he blinked before smiling in amusement as he realized the other wasn’t wearing his typical undergarments but some simple cloth, easily pushed aside, as if to allow access to furry hips and tail. His fingers worked at the base of Blueberry Milk’s tail coaxingly. “At least a nap? Just because sleep isn’t necessary to your survival doesn’t mean you don’t need it, Bluebell.”

He smirked slightly, when the other cookie didn’t respond. Pressing his lips to Blueberry Milk’s crown gently, he let his fingers card through soft fur, indulging in the warmth of another cookie at his side; the feeling of completion that washed over him.

“Thank you, Bluebell,” he whispered softly, love awash in his soul. “You worked so hard.”

Gentle purring, even in sleep. He muffled a yawn, but resolve kept his eyes open. His attention turned to the papers that Blueberry Milk had half tossed at him. His Fount had done what was needed; now it was his turn to offer his protection to this beautiful dream – this wish – he never wanted to end.

***

It was still a little bewildering, how well rested he felt.

Despite not needing sleep, despite all the reasons he should never have succumbed; he could not deny how his mind felt…clearer. How his limbs did not weigh quite so heavily. How even the throb behind his scarred eye had lessened.

(He was still a little miffed, that shapeshifting away the corruption had reopened his wounds and led to a recurrence of his headaches.)

The soft shuffle of pages, followed by the gentle trail of fingers over his face, settling at the corner of his eye. He nuzzled into that warm palm unthinkingly, even as a gentle voice asked, “alright, love?”

He nodded sleepily, more a nuzzle than a nod, because he truly was alright. Even so, there was a soft hum, followed by the gentle warmth of healing magic trickling into his damaged dough. Something in him uncoiled, and his tail ended up sliding to curl around one of the legs that cradled him, even as his ear sought the steady thrum of Pure Vanilla’s heart. It was…so very soothing.

“Better,” he heard, with half an ear. Fingers trailing, almost daintily, across the curve of his eye, his brow, his ear, carding through the silver of his bangs. Running over still fresh – raw – icing, tracing Algiz upon his brow. 

It was so peaceful.

So, of course, it needed to be broken.

No rest for the wicked.

“It’s still a sealing ritual,” Pure Vanilla started gently.

The faint sound of shuffling, as the healer rifled through the assorted parchments. There was a curl of distaste-frustration-dismay-fear-resignation in the hollow of his heart. He swallowed, claws curling a little tighter even as he brushed his lips against Pure Vanilla’s chest, something trembling in his heart. “We discussed this,” he started, before a hand carded through his hair and a pool of love-not-his submerged him.

“I know, love.” A sigh. “I just…please understand. I’ve agreed to your plan. I’m simply…not happy with it. That is…reasonable, is it not? …you were…sealed, Bluebell. In that future we are trying to avoid. Even if…I’ve been unable to come up with an alternative plan…that doesn’t mean I have to like the current version.”

He sighed, heavily, before sitting up slowly, each movement dragging and lethargic; pulling himself away from Pure Vanilla a chore. Leaning against the taller cookie, he pointed, half blackened claw tapping against the parchment between them.

“It is a sealing ritual,” He allowed, voice hushed. “But I’ve simplified it. Made it as kind as I could.” He could feel Pure Vanilla’s beholder and eyes both upon him, quiet anticipation within their bond. But it was nonjudgmental. So, he continued. “Isa, yes, for stillness, for stasis. But here, I’ve coupled it with Thurisaz and Naudhiz – for defense and constraint, yes, but also for protection and resilience. Endurance. Protection coupled with resilience and self-reliance for my sib- …for those sealed away… as well as for those without. Also, Thurisaz into Sowilo, for disruption of corruption into purification unto Berkana and Inguz for healing, regeneration and growth, change until we end in Dagaz. Hope, but also – awakening.  

“And, all of it, underpinned by, beginning and ending with- with…Algiz… Divine Protection – of the seal, of the cookies within and without, but also Divine Knowledge – the silver itself within the leylines taught to be a barrier – not to separate or break apart, but rather to provide Sanctuary – until we have -Algiz-Isa-Thurisaz/Naudhiz-Sowilo-Berkana/Inguz-Dagaz-Algiz- stasis and stillness that protects and heals, that purifies; that there might be healing and regeneration and growth until hopeful change and awakening. Not a cage but a sanctuary. A haven. And so, we complete the circle.”

He swallowed, turning towards Pure Vanilla, seeking – acknowledgement, recognition. Acceptance. Because he knew – he Knew Pure Vanilla hated this, hated the idea of allowing the seal to remain, of using it and not rejecting it outright – but he would try – he had tried – for Pure Vanilla. He had put his trust in hope; he had dared to have faith – that the world could be kinder, that fate would not condemn him-

(But if, if he was sealed, all the same – was accepting his own damnation with this seal – then, at least – there was awakening built into it. Healing. Purification.)

(And maybe, one day, when he was freed – for he Knew Pure Vanilla would free him – he would be whole, be pure, once again. Not the disgusting, corrupted thing that he was, that would never deserve to stand beside Pure Vanilla in the sun.)

Carefully taking Pure Vanilla’s hand in his own, tail curling around the other cookie where they sat together, he quietly drew the other cookie’s attention to Dagaz, to Algiz. Tried to make Pure Vanilla see- that he had tried. “There is awakening, dear heart. No cookie sealed with this ritual will be sealed forever. And, by underpinning it all with Algiz – with myself – with Dark Moon Magic – sealing would be – in the Other Realm. One well removed from danger and still mine. So – safe. A place for rest, for healing, if need be. What’s more – while any cookie, technically, could perform this ritual, by underlying it with Algiz – only I who am Algiz – can perform this ritual to fullest effect. …I’m positive Lord Criollo, the Institute, Lord Assam will understand that. If they are…truly serious, about defending themselves against my siblings – against Spice and Salt and Flour and Sugar – about protecting cookies, first and foremost – they’ll need me in order to do it.”

He was – panting. It felt as if he had been forced to actually run, from here to Cremefeld. As if he were poisoned by silver all over again, and could barely get air enough into his heaving lungs. His claws trembled, around Pure Vanilla’s hand. Did I- is it- enough? Did I do well? Will he be- have I finally done – something good?

Lips, pressing messily against his own. Tongue, curling against his own, scraping against his fangs.  He fell onto his back from the force of it all, shaking, gasping; Pure Vanilla cradling his head, his side, covering him, protecting him. Tears, in his hair. Relief-gratitude-adoration-reverence-hope in the hollow of his heart. “Thank you. Bluebell. Blueberry Milk Cookie. Thank you.”

***

Pure Vanilla’s question came, hushed, when he was still too dazed, mind floaty and distant – from the healer’s warmth; the hand scratching at his tail, carding through his fur; from the overwhelming feeling of love-his-not-his flooding his soul.

(He also could barely hear his other half, over the sound of his own purring.)

Eyes fluttering open, he took a moment to force his thoughts into some semblance of order, hazarding an attempt at speech, but ultimately gave up, still feeling too languorous. Instead, he traced out idly against Pure Vanilla’s dough, ‘pardon?’

Pure Vanilla’s hands left his fur and he couldn’t suppress the whine that escaped him, even as the other cookie laughed and pat his head, before saying, “What will happen to the other Virtues? …if they are sealed, I mean.”

It took a moment for the question to register. But when it did, he froze, before rolling away, something anxious and uncomfortable bubbling in his gut. He scrubbed at his face until Pure Vanilla was hovering over him, one hand running soothingly over his side and chest, until he was facing the healer once again. Then, gentle fingers peeled his claws from his face. A murmured, “Bluebell?”

“Why do you ask?”

The hand at his chest stilled, before moving to trace out his keyhole marking lightly. (It was soothing. Even when he hated that brand, when something within him wanted to hide away, Pure Vanilla always was so- soothing.) “It was something Lady Smith said, when I spoke with them. While you were working on the seal.” A pause. “She said that Lord Criollo and the Institute should have known better than to allow such a plan. …as if your sealing would be…problematic. Beyond the obvious cruelty of such an ill-conceived imprisonment.”

“Ah.” He sighed. Of course, a student of mine would grasp the implications. Unconsciously, his gaze turned upon Pure Vanilla (or rather, the Soul Jam set upon the bedside table, discarded in the wake of…other things). “One cannot simply…remove…Volition, Happiness, Change, Solidarity, or Knowledge from this world. Not without grave consequence. As I have said before, they are fundamental.” He sighed, eyes closing.

With a tremulous frown, he sat up, summoning Truth to him in a curl of magic. Slowly, he held the Light of Truth out to Pure Vanilla, adding, “Those things must exist, even if we do not.”

(An existence, beyond that of a mere mortal cookie. A God, not because of his incredible power, his Witch-baked dough, but because of his Purpose. Knowledge, given cookie form. Magic, given dough. A pillar of Earthbread, given Life.

Knowledge was indivisible. But the part of him that was Knowledge, externalized? A representation of his office, a piece of his Divinity beyond his cookie form? …that was not.)

(Truth was part of Knowledge. Compassion, Knowledge-giving-Mercy. Function preserved.)

He could tell the exact moment Pure Vanilla understood. Pure Vanilla blanched, even as horror throbbed between them. Pure Vanilla’s hand trembled, as he reached out for his Soul Jam.

He tried to smile, hoping it wasn’t too weak. Felt wry-melancholy bloom in his heart. “The Soul Jam would necessarily be split. …The function must be preserved,” he said again.

Gently guiding Pure Vanilla’s hands to curl around Truth, to accept it his gift, he added, trying at reassurance, “My sealing is not the only way you could come by Truth, dear heart. I would happily split Knowledge myself, bequeath you a piece of my Divinity, if it came to that. Truth is yours. I want Truth to be yours. It is…not something I would change, even if I could.”

A hand, reaching out to trace over the scar across his eye, his brow. Pure Vanilla’s expression was…complicated in a way he could not even begin to understand. Not when it reflected a bizarre mix of confusion-sorrow-bewilderment-rejection-acceptance-longing-conflict. “Why?” the other cookie asked, voice almost…broken.

He clasped that hand against his face, lips grazing soft dough tenderly. “How could I hate such a thing? It is…my Truth, you bear. My Truth, you hold. It has become yours, yes, transformed and derivative and never again to be mine, but once it was mine. And so- so- you Know me. Truth lets you Know me.” He smiled weakly. “No cost is too great – to be known, to be irrevocably tied, to the only cookie who was ever truly mine.”

There was something fierce, possessive and eager, roiling inside him. A growl rattled through his chest as he leaned in, nuzzling firmly against the column of Pure Vanilla’s throat. “And make no mistake, Pure Vanilla Cookie. I am yours. My Truth is yours. But you – you are also mine.”

Hands, carding through his hair. Brushing lightly over his ear. It had some wretchedly clingy strands curling, even as his ear twitched lightly; and yet…he relaxed. Some thread of tension unwound. Slowly, after a moment’s hesitation, but deliberately, he pressed his lips to Pure Vanilla’s Soul Jam – that part of himself he had given away, would give away, would always give away, that was no longer his – and said, “you Know me. And that is more than enough.”

Pure Vanilla let out a soft noise as he did so, one that had something bubbling and heady coiling within him, and that was something worth exploring – one day – (his mind flashed, briefly, to the way his Hope had reacted, when magic was pulsed through his Soul Jam- the way he had reacted, to magic pulsed through his Soul Jam) but then, Pure Vanilla was tugging him closer, so that he was nestling against that broad chest, while hands wrapped securely around his waist, brushing over the fur revealed there. A nose, pressed into his hair.

“Would you ever…wish to take it back?” More of those incomprehensible emotions – anxiety-worry-hesitancy-loneliness-sorrow-mourning and he was twisting, that he might look Pure Vanilla in the eyes, but the other cookie stilled his movement. The healer’s hand trembled, where it curled around him. He could only purr quietly, hoping to comfort. A soft sigh in his ear; lips, pressed against his temple, before those fingers steadied, moving to trace lightly at the marking upon his chest. Slowly, finally, Pure Vanilla lost that line of tension, even as he held on a little more tightly.

“I just…the future is…even if we-“ A sigh, followed by a head, resting against his shoulder. “I will try. I will endure. I will not falter. But even so, we do not know what the future holds. Not truly. Not until we…get there. Can you truly say…you would never regret it? Never want it back? Your Soul Jam… whole?”

He watched, as Pure Vanilla’s fingers curled around the Light of Truth almost…too tightly. There was a tiny tremor in the healer’s voice, as he whispered, “I do not wish to hurt you. I…I will admit I don’t quite understand your relation to the Soul Jam; that you call Truth derivative, as if it matters not to Knowledge that I have it, and yet you- you speak as if some part of you must be split apart, all the same. …I do not wish you to regret it.”

Ah.

He hummed softly, trying to work out how best to explain something that he understood instinctively, but might be inherently incomprehensible to anyone else.

Head tilting upwards, lips grazing against Pure Vanilla’s jaw, he murmured, “First. I could never regret this. Even if…my soul truly was split in half…if giving up a portion of my Soul Jam did destroy something within me…so long as you Knew me, loved me, it would be enough. You must understand, Pure Vanilla. I was…so very alone. For so long. It was…all I knew. And yet – in knowing Truth, in loving Truth – you Know me. Love me. It’s all I ever wanted. It’s…I don’t even really care about the Soul Jam. I don’t think I ever would. It’s about – you. It’s – if you forsook Truth. My Truth. Me. You- you made Truth yours, but before that it was mine. It is still mine. Even as it is yours. So, if you- rejected my Truth, rejected me- that would…break me. But…this?”

He reached out, claws curling gently around Pure Vanilla’s Soul Jam – that little piece of himself that he – would give away? …had given away. Swallowing roughly, thumb brushing over the smooth, crystalline surface, he could feel…warmth. Something faint and tender, waving at him. Like a distant, beloved memory, cherished and sepia toned, watching from a place just beyond his reach.

It was…bittersweet. Holding this piece of himself that was no longer truly his. Summoning Knowledge to his side in a glow of blue light, he found himself comparing the two. Looking at Truth and Knowledge, side by side. Regret-sorrow-loneliness-not-his, settling like a weight in the hollow of his heart. Pure Vanilla, shifting, at his side. It was only after he leaned more deeply into the healer’s chest, tucking himself within the other cookie’s embrace, tail looping around the other’s leg that Pure Vanilla settled, even as a sort of sorrowfully-amused-self-deprecating-relief curled between them.

Pure Vanilla’s cheek at his temple, his arms curled around his waist. He sighed softly before carefully holding out both Soul Jams that he might- that Pure Vanilla might- See.

They were similar but…not the same. Knowledge was…darker. A deep, midnight blue that pulsed with a heady thrum; a heavy, undeniable weight. Knowledge would always be…heavy. Tainted, by vision, by sight, by an unavoidable awareness of the world. The eye, once closed – peacefully asleep – now – watching. Ever watching. Missing nothing. (For it was his-to-Know.) And yet – specks. Of iridescence. Luminescence. Tiny pinpricks deep within. Of Light. Silver, pale blue – like starlight.

Pure Vanilla’s Soul Jam was…untarnished, in comparison. Heavy, yes. For Truth was also a weight. And yet – it shone. That pale, clear blue, glowing softly, like the sky just after sunrise. As if someone had taken nearly all the concentrated starlight within Knowledge and crafted from it something purer, more beautiful than before.

(…as if, someone had taken all the best parts of himself, whole and untainted and good, and used them to create something better than he could ever be.)

(It was…a relief. Even if…all the disgusting, ugly parts of himself had been brushed off like so much chaff, had been left behind, left to rot within him …at least he would never taint Pure Vanilla with those wretched, dirty things.)

Pressing Truth delicately against his heart, his eyes slipped closed. Relief. Acceptance. Because – it didn’t change anything.

Smiling down at the gem in his hands, he started, “I am Knowledge. You know this. That means… this…,” he held up the Light of Knowledge carefully, in indication, “is me. As much as my doughy body is also me. An extension of myself. It exists as I exist. It is…my Divinity given form, my purpose, externalized. It was crafted of my jam, my Life Powder, my Soul. As I said, I take the phrase ‘Soul Jam’ quite literally. And Truth… is all the best parts of me. Something pure and whole and untainted. My Truth, even if it is not…all of my Truth. Because Knowledge is more than just Truth, and I am more than just Knowledge, even as I cannot be divorced from Knowledge.”

He held up the Soul Jam, gesturing. “Truth and Knowledge are things that… exist. As themselves. I am Knowledge, but Knowledge exists outside of myself. It is still a fundamental aspect of reality. Knowledge exists regardless of whether or not it is known. And thus…the Soul Jam. Knowledge must exist, regardless of whether or not I do. And Truth is the same. Truth exists, whether or not it is accepted.

“But to your point about the ‘derivative nature’ of Truth – Knowledge necessarily encompasses Truth, just as it necessarily encompasses Deceit. Knowledge is the perception and judgement of something Known, an assessment of an existence as either a Truth or Falsehood. But the reverse is not true. Truth can exist, does exist, independently of Knowledge. But this is why Truth is also derivative. For you to ‘accept’ a truth, to act on a truth, you must also Know that truth. Without Knowledge – Truth is…meaningless. Truth is…not the end. It is the beginning. It’s how you are not just Truth, but… Compassion.”

He wet his lips and then said, softly, the words resounding a little too flatly, ringing, rising from that place within that was himself as much as Knowledge, “Compassion’s gain is not Knowledge’s loss.”

Leaning into Pure Vanilla’s warmth, threading their fingers together, he finished, “But, even if none of that were true; if Truth was born through the rending of my soul; if…in allowing Truth to live, Knowledge must crumble, I still…wouldn’t regret it. Not when…I already gave it to you. I have given you my heart, Nilla. With only…the hope that you would treat it kindly. I have already given you all of…my Truth.”

Carefully, he slid Pure Vanilla’s hand to graze gently against Algiz, upon his brow; the corruption, that marred his face; the keyhole, upon his chest; the fur, upon his belly. “I am already yours, Pure Vanilla Cookie. In all the ways that matter. And Truth, you having Truth, just…makes more real a Truth I have already Known.”